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HOW TO WHITE FICTION 
Especially 
THE ART OP SHORT STORY WRITING 
A Practical Course of Instruction 
After the French Method of Maupassant 

i 5 H" v4 I'M 
'.?-» d ^ ■ 

First Edition of One Hundred Numbered 
Copies, in facsimile from original 
Manuscript ♦ 

t 
New Tort f 'W*'*^ 

THE RIVERSIDE LITERARY PlJUEAU 
Charles T. Dillingham * Co. 
Publishers. 
Copyright, 1894, by Charles T. Dillingham & Of 



PREFACE, 

Of all the audacious things of which a 
literary man may be guilty, probably 
nothing tfill appear to his brother authors 
qui to' so audacious as an attempt to re- 
duce the art of fiction to rules ani a 
system* T he very word "rules" is hateful 
to tte truly literary soul, and even the 
vague suggestion of th$n without the 
actual us of the wd rd rouses a storm of 
rebellion. T o reveal the fact fcfc** that 
the grand climax is a trick and style may 
be a clever catching of phrases seems 
perfidy of the rankest type, even if such 
a culpable revelation is a possibility in 
the very nature of things. Put it has 
been a mystery fetish, closely hugged, 
that the art of literature i s so elusive 
that there is no possibility of formulat- 
ing it or teaching it to another. 
Little by little in recent times, to be 
sure, that fetish has been attacked by 
the temerarious, and #ith decided results. 
Walter Fesarrt has innocently done much to 
destroy it, and possibly might have quite 
succeeded had not Henry James come fierce- 
ly to the rescue. The Society of Authors 
and the review editors have done their 
share in helping on the gro /ing spirit 
of enlightenment. Kut still the opinion 
is general lv prevalent that the art of 
fiction is a thousand times more volatile 
and evanescent than the art of painting 
(which has its distinct schools), and the 
art of music (which is taught in conser- 
vatories), and the art of sculpture, which 



-1 



is not considered impossible to learn 
in spite of the fact that no one since 
Phidias has caught his enchanting prace, 

The present writer realizes all this as 
he ventures to offer the public a general 
guide to the successful practice of the 
gentlest of arts. He remembers the saying 
that "fools rush in where angels fear to 
tread," and the unhappy application which 
might be made of it to himself; but he 
would seek his defence in suggesting that 
the proverb is also true of children, and 
he confides to the believing reader that 
it was after their manner that he slipped 
into his attitude of audacity. He is not 
the author of very many great short 
stories, but circumstances have made him 
conscious of the needs of a number of 
modest though eager beginners, and to 
help them he formulated a few principles 
from such mast er<? of the art of short 
stor y wr it ing as M aup as san t , The en t hu s- 
iasm with which they received his sug- 
gestions and rules, and the successful 
use they made of them, lei him un^xttinjr* 
ly on until he had written a book f which 
is contained in the following pages. In 
presen + ing what he has to say he expressly 
deprecates any interest from the critics, 
who will be sure to disagree, but offers 
himself to the innocent an d unsuspectin g 
aspirant to be used as he may be found 
useful, and to be left with indulgent 
indifference when his usefulness shall 
have passed • 



THE ART OF SHORT STORY WRITING. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Most young writers imagine when they 
first think of writing short stories that 
one writes well or ill by nature , and if 
one does not write well in the first place 
improvement is a matter of chance or thP 
woricing out of inherent ability in some 
blind way. That the art of short story 
writing is something that can be learned 
seems not yet to have suggested itself 
very practically to authors or critics. 
Yet Maupassant studied seven years with 
Flaubert before he began to print at all, 
with the result of a very obvious skill, 
and this suggests the possibility that 
others also can learn the art. But any 
writer young or old who has gone to an 
acknowledged master of literature in order 
to get instruction knows how little 
practical assistance is commonly obtained. 
?here are bureaus of revision and advice, 
which have made some pretensions beyond 
merely telling the young author whether 
his work is saleable or not, and where 
he may hope to dispo se of it. But none 
of them have been successful in niuch rrpre 
than the mechanical and business part. 

I. 

If we are going to do more than amuse 
ourselves with writing, we shall f ind it 



necessary a lotmg and arduous course of 
study of the art of it* Most successful 
writers work out this training alone, in 
the face of many discouragements, and 
after years of struggle, Tftoge whP have 
succeeded without it have commonly at- 
tained only a temporary and fleeting 
success. Those who have succeeded in 
other arts sometimes bejgin to write when 
they are well advanced in years, and 
succeed from the start, as Du Maijrier has 
done. It is not to be supposed, YfiVfever, 
that even Du Maurier can become a great 
literary artist without considerable hard 
work and arduous endeavor ♦ But Du Maur- 
ier , beginning to write at his ag9, will 
naturally not waste so much of his energy 
in unnecessary directions, as a younger 
man would do . 

But the young can seldom, if ever, 
attain great and permanent success, even; 
if by peculiar personal brilliancy they 
attain a fleeting one, except by an 

to P t^ tice f hip either t0 SOme ^ster or 
™ the masterpieces of literature for 
the very reason that literature analyzes 

the emotions, and the emotions are the 
last part of ourselves which we cone to 
control or understand , and mastery of 
the emotions is the most difficult thing 
in all life. A young person when he 
begins to write has that whole side of 
his nature to learn about and bring under 
subservience, whil e one older has the 
advantage of having mastered himself 
more fully in that direction. In order 
to succeed as a writer, therefore, it 



3 

becomes necessary in the case of the 

young : to study and master the 

psychology of the emotioms and the motives 
of human action. This opens an enormous- 
ly wide field, and one of which very 
little is yet known even to the learned. 
Zola is perhaps the only one who has for- 
mulated the theory that the art of fic- 
tion must be based on a scientific study 
of human nature, but his dicta are only 
a crystal izat ion of what Balzac and 
Flaubert and Maupassant and the Goncourts 
thought when they produced their own 
work and verbally said to each other in 
friendly discussions. 

Perhaps the reader may say at this 
point, "Then your book is the discussion 
of a new theory, a polemic for the crit- 
ics, not a practical formulation of 
principles already well known in the 
literary world?* 

It is true that successful English 
writers up to this time have never become 
successful writers by applying the theory 
that the art of fiction must be based on 
the scientific study of human nature. 
The poets have depended on natural 
inspiration and the hints they could get 
intuitively from studying literature. 
Writers of fiction have learned what they 
have learned by the intuitive method in 
reading those who w;ere masters. A 
novelist reads all the ether novelists, 
and then writes a novel more or less 
like theirs as well as he can. An essay 



writer reads all the other essayists, anli 
then writes essays as well as he can on 
the models he has, with original modifi- 
cations* Bu>t to say, "Young man, read 
literature," is like saying, "Young man, 
go west," without pointing out the road 
by which he should go. There never has 
been any definite road, every writer has 
struck out for himself, just as the 
pioneers of our own country struck out 
singly or in parties to penetrate the 
wilderness toward the west. They all 
knew enough to go westward, but they had 
a decidedly hard time o f it because 
there was no road to go on. This theory 
is an effort to build a road in the direc- 
tion of literary art to which any adviser 
can point and say, f, You had best follow 
that road, young man* It leads in the 
direction you wish to go and is much 
easier to travel than the open fields* * 

If the road is really built, no 
doubt thousands of people will find it 
possible to go toward literary art where 
now only a few can encure to the end, 
even if they have courage to set out, 
just as thousands of people go west on 
the railways and steamships, where only a 
few could go across the plains in wagons 
■when- there were not even trails. 

The French are the most artistic people 
in the world, and we Americans turn 
toward them most naturally for guidance* 
Maupassant has written most successfully 
according to the scientific method of 
short story writing, and in this volume 
we shall constantly follow him as a model. 



5 
Zola has formulated the theory, however,- 
that is t the broad theory of basing the • 
writing of fiction on a scientific study 
of human nature. Kef erring to Zola's 
book "The Experimental Novel " let us as 
an introduction give the general theory 
of the relation of scientific study to art. 
After this general statement we shall 
confine ourselves to more practical 
deta il s. 

II. 

First, what is the "scientific method 11 
as applied to anything, whether physiolo- 
gy or novel writing? 

Zola sa?/s the scientific method is 
this' You observe something, — for in- 
stance, that women we-ep when they are 
particularly pleased. On that observa- 
tion you Vovm s general hypothesis, per- 
haps that excess of emotion, whether 
unhappy or pleasurable, overcones will 
sda self-control. Having formed that 
hypothesis from the well known fact that 
women we©p when they are unhappy and 
the single observation of a woman weeping 
when she should be particularly happy, 
you proceed to verify your general hypo- 
thesis by other observations of the same 
kind, until at last you have a mass of 
evidence which more or less fully 
establishes the law, and you say you 
have a theory. A theory, we may add, is 
an hypothesis as fully established as 



6 

circumstances will admit, a law is a 
theory which is established beyond the 
least doubt. For instance, gravitation 
is a law, the existence of such things as 
atoms and molecules is a theory. As Zola 
expresses it over and over again, you 
proceed from the known to the unknown, 
verifying every step. Experiment is the 
way in which you verify every step, — you 
try the theory on. It does not matter in 
the least whether you do it in a labor- 
atory where you can put two chemical 
substances together and get what is tech- 
nically cabled a reaction, or in the 
realm of human nature, where you try the 
theory that excess of enstt on destroys 
self-control by applying it to all sorts 
of cases, for instance men becoming un- 
controllable through excessive anger 
as well as women weeping hysterically 
under excessive sorrow or excessive joy. 
The chemist has things more or less in 
his own hands, for he can take his two 
substances and put them together. The 
exper imenter on human nature has a more 
difficult task, because he must wait for 
his circumstances to turn up accidentally 
in most cases. Put the real experiment 
is not in putting the two things together 
and trying to observe what will happen, 
but applying the hypothesis to the case 
in hand, whatever it may be, in order to 
see if the hypothesis holds good. There 
is no scientific experiment in merely 
putting two chemical substances together 






7 

to see what will happen. That is what 
the alchemists did. Modern scientific 
chemistry puts two sxibstances together in 
order to demonstrate a law. If the hy- 
pothesis is really a law, the experimen- 
ter knows beforehand just what will hap- 
pen when the two substances are put to- 
ge-yoer , and when he has put his substan- 
ces together and the thing he prophesied 
does happen, the experiment has been a 
success. If something else happens, how- 
ever interesting that something else 
may be, the experiment as an experi- 
ment has been a failure. 

Now let us apply this to novel writing, 
or rather to the study of human passions. 
It was very naive of a certain reviewer 
to suppose that Zola meant that in a 
novel you put two imaginary people toge- 
ther and see what they will do, just as 
a child puts potassium on water to see it 
burn. Zola distinctly says that the 
book that is written is the^ report of the 
experiment. The experiment is tried on 
human life. For instance, the chief 
theory in tola's Hougon -Mac quart series 
of novels is that heredity determines 
human li fle so absolutely that no individ- 
ual can get away from it. He takes this 
theory (and also a multitude of other 
theories) and proceeds about collecting 
evidence, or making experiments. He 
observes this fact here, that fact 
there. We say "observes*, for observa- 
tion, he insists, must always go hand in 



3 
hand with theory. The experimental meth- 
od, he says, is observation working hand 
in hand with an hypothesis. Observation 
working alone is quite a different 
thing from observation applied to the 
demonstration of a law. Above we have 
mentioned the theory Zola would establish. 
He goes out into the world and observes a 
multitude or facts about various people. 
When he has observed enough he t§kes the 
facts and pirts them together into a 
regular series. He creates characters 
out of his observations. His characters 
are little more than a mass of observa- 
tions fused together by the white heat of 
his personality. Each one of the facts 
that has gone to make up a character may 
be verified* Will such a person under 
such circumstances do so and so? If you 
wish to be sure, go out into the world 
and look. If you find them doing the 
contrary, you say Zola has made a mistake. 
The scientific novel differs frcm poetry 
in just this, that every fact can be 
verified, while in poetry it is diffi- 
cult to separate the actual from the 
fanciful. 

In his novel Zola has arranged ail his 
observations in such a way that you can 
see their bearing on his theory. The 
novel is the report of his experiments. 
He does not put his imaginary characters 
together to see what they will do. He 
knows what they must do before he puts 
them together. If when he puts them 



9 

together they do easily and naturally what 
he claimed, one must admit that he is a 
true prophet, that he has demonstrated 
his hypothesis. The novel is the care- 
fully arranged report of a multitude of 
exper iment s, organized and systematized 
so as to show clearly the relations of 
each part to each part, 

* * + 

You may say this is al 1 very well for 
theory, but how about the real novel 
that we have? This may do well enough 
for the psychologist , but the novelist 
is a very different person. This cer- 
tainly is not the way poetry is written, 
and w£ had supposed that the novel and 
poetry were pretty nearly of kin. How, 
then, do you apply your theory to the 
real, actual novel which we read every 
day, and with which we amuse ourselves? 

Zola says distinctly that there are 
poets and scientific novelists (we use 
"scientific" instead of "naturalist ic* 
because the former word conveys to us 
more nearly Zola's real meaning). Up 
to the present century poetry, romanti- 
cism, has filled the field of letters. 
Homer and Shake sp ere indeed were in the 
very fullness of their genius writers 
after the scientific method. But the 
scientific method was never consciously 
applied until Balzac. In his first essay 
Zola quotes Claude Bernard, the physiolo- 
gical scientist, whose bock entitled "In- 
troduction to the Study of Experimental 
Medicine" he us4s as a parallel for dis- 



10 

cussing the novel. Claude Bernard is A 
savant, a pure man of science, en d he 
applies the scientific method to medicine 
in his book just as Zola would apply this 
method to the study of human passions, 
or novel writing. But Claude Bernard 
says, n In art and letters personality 
dominates everything. There one is 
dealing with a spontaneous creation of 
the mind that has nothing in common with 
the verification of natural phenomena, 
in which our minds can create nothing. " 
The reviewer before mentioned says this 
is the fact and Zola d>es not disprove 
it. Zola himself says this is the fact 
regarding the writers of the romantic 
school, but Balzac and his successors 
have been trying to raise the novel out 
of the slojagh of mere fancy on to a 
level with true science, and he as a 
novelist wishes to be considered as much 
a savant as Claude Bernard is as a 
physiologist. 

No doubt Zola goes too far in his in- 
sistence upon the novel being treated as 
pure science, for the novel itself is 
pure art, and it is only the preparatory 
study of human nature that can be 
looked upon as pure science. The suc- 
ceeding volume is devoted to the art, 
but as the student proceeds frcm page to 
page he will see how necessary a scientif- 
ic knowledge of human nature is at every ■ 
point, whether in testing his own 
capacity or in knowing how to adapt hira*> 



*u - m 



4 * 



-s. 



self to his readers, or in elaborating a 
natural and truly human plot. 

III. 

This opens an enormous field of study, 
but each student of literary art must 
determine for himself hPw much of the 
scientific study of human nature he is 
going to do as a groundwork for his own 
stories. He will have to do some, and no 
doubt will wish to. If he does a very 
little ^he may write a very few short 
stories; if he does more he can write a 
larger number of /stories or a novel; 
if he does a great deal he can write 
several scores of short stories or 
several novels. Rut after he has 
written one good short story, he cannot 
e^ect to write another unless he has 
mare genuine material, and he cannot 
expect to go on writing short stories 
indefinitely without a corresponding 
effort in collecting fresh knowledge of 
human nature. The old knowledge can*pt 
be used over and over indefinitely. 
There are a great many writers whP start 
out in the magazines with a few brilliant 
and interesting short stories. Then a 
few are printed on the strength of their 
first reputation which are not so 
brilliant, and then they gradually lose 
their public, the editors get tired of 
them, and the reader hears their names 
no more unt il one or two of their first 
short stories are reprinted in some 
collection, and he wonders what has become 



12 

of the authors. Every book reviewer of 
mare than* two years experience has seen 
at least a half do^en writers, npstly 
yo-ung women who had been taken up by 
some large magazine, drop out of sight 
just because they had exhausted their 
store. The young writer who is going to 
travel the difficult road to literary Q^f; 
should consider this well before start- 
ing. 

But literary art is something very 
distinct from literary science. In 
Zola's "experimental novel" there is no 
experiment in the book itself. The 
experimenting was all done on real people 
before the author began to write the 
novel. When he began to write htf left 
science and took up art. At this 
point w@ will leave science and take up 
art. Zola puts all his emphasis on the 
scientific basis of fiction a<s science, 
and apparently forgets that he is wholly 
dependant on art for the expression of 
his scientific observations* So in 
leaving science let ys leave %ola and 
look to Maupassant, who in the stories 
of "The Odd Number " so well illustrates 
the principles of literary art as art, 

We define art as a process of moving 
people's emotions, and by emotions we 
mean simply that part of the human mind 
which works spontaneously and unconscious- 
ly as distinguished from the conscious, 
reasoning part of the mi»d. When one 
reads a story that is perfectly artistic^ 



13 

or sees a beautiful painting, or behPlds 
a Greek statue, he receives an impression, 
not a theory. He may be led to theorize 
about his impression afterward, but 
there is no theory in a worj* of art. We 
all know how little able the critics are 
to make out Shakespere's opinions from 
his plays, and they have almost concluded 
that he had no opinions. Perhaps *he 
fewer opinions as such which an artist 
lias, except opinions about how to be 
artistic, the better for his art. The 
public is like a child. It wants to b* 
moved emotionally or unconsciously. A% 
its best it is merely receptive. If you 
can wake it up, if you can make it laugh 
or cry or love or hate, by your work of 
art, then yo u are a successful artist. If 
you try to make your readers theorize, or 
to reason with them, your work of art is 
not successful as a work of art, however 
excellent it may be as philosophy. 'When 
peqple read your story they must fg el an 
effect. If they feel nothing there is no 
art. That is why we say art is a process 
of moving the emotions. As a matter of 
fact, the world is governed by its 
emotions, not its principles of living 
or its religion or its political con- 
clusions, or anything else of the nature 
of reason*. It acts as it feels, that is, 
it is governed by its emotions. Phil- 
osophers agree in this, and common sense 
pecple can rot help observing it in life, 
however loth they are to admit it for 
ttemselves* When we write a story we 






14 

must try to play upon the emotions of our 
readers* It happens that all people have 
the same kinds of emotions which act in 
the same ways, each in a different pro- 
portion, but still all the same. Emotions 
are also governed by laws, and if you 
understand these laws you may pull the 
strings and work the emotions, provided 
you are clever enough to do it. 

A story writer is something like an 
actor in a theatre, only he must produce 
tte scenery as well as th© facial ex- 
pressions, endthrov; an atmosphere over 
everything- The actor forgets himself 
in thinking of the effect he is pro- 
ducing on his audience, and the vriter 
must learn to do the same thing. To 
write blindly, hoping for the bust, is 
very bad art indeod. A literary artist 
must think of his readers first end 
foremost. He must know what they are 
thinking, what they are feeling, and, 
adapting himself to their moods and 
needs he must do what they will like to 
have him do (that is to say, they must 
like it well enough to read his books, 
after which it does not matter). Young 
writers think so much mere of themselves 
than of their readers as a usuaj thing, 
that of course they do not produce much 
effect , for one cannot expect to move 
people vury much by going at it hit or 
miss. The Effective man always sees at 
what he is aiming , and then strikes 
straight and true. 

This brings us to our first practical 



15 
point. Controlling other people's 
emotions is Just like controlling your 
own. If you cannot control your own, you 
cannot control those of any one else. For 
instance, if one canmot control his 
sentiment of love, — that is, if he has 
quite lost his head by falling in love,— - 
he certainly cantot interest people very' 
much in writing about it* His own 
emotions naturally overcome him *hen 
he begins to write about them. This is 
mc> re or less true of all other emotions, 
but it is especially true of love, since 
most stories are about love, and love is 
the grand passion. It is certain that 
while one is subject to a sentiment he 
cannot write successfully about it. Of 
course this is different from loving con- 
sciously and restrainedly, as a mother 
loves hex % child. But even in this case, 
while a particular mother is loving a 
particular child, she is very likely to 
say a good many foolish things about the 
child and her love for him. When the 
child has grown up and twenty years 
have past, she can perhaps look back and 
write reasonably about the child and her 
love for him. 

In general the young person, looking on 
life as a great mystery, not knowing 
what it holds for him or what it may 
not hold, is not competent to deal with 
the general problems of life in fiction 
until he has fought the fight out and 
gained his balance. Personal equilib- 
rium is absolutely necessary to the 



* 6 

successful writing of fiction. Being 
swayed in this direction or that direc- 
tion by one's emotions is akin to insan- 
ity. If one feels too intensely in oxi in- 
direct ion, or thinks too hard about one 
subject, he will go insane on that side 
of his brain, that is, he will lose all 
control of himself and all possibility 
of getting his mental balance again. 
One may indeed feel very intensely in 
one direction, and think very hard 
about one subject, yet be able to recover 
himself. While he has the power of pul- 
ling himself back, the physicians do not 
say he is insane* But while he allows 
himself to be under such a strain he 
cannot "have the balance that is necessary 
for short story writing, to say the least, 
and he must recover himself completely 
before he can write successfully. 

Of course one may be unbalanced in one 
direction and not in another, though 
when a man lacks perfect, sanity in one 
direction you are likely to suspect him 
in all others, and disease in one part 
certainly saps the strength of other parts* 
But one may have the vice of excessive 
drinking, for instance, and at the same 
tire be able to write wholesome love stor- 
ies. Still, if one were going to follow 
that man's advice about love, one would 
wish he were not dissipated. 

But if one does not have some balance 
of character there is little use in 
trying to write stories. The style will 
be strained and impossible, the scenes 



■ — - 



17 

will hare glaring errors of observation, 
the whole work will appear like a picture 
in a stereopticon that is out of focus* 
All young persons are more or less un- 
balanced, since balance is something 
that must be acquired. They are like 
children learning to walk. By the very 
nature 'of the case they must be unsteady, 
and of course they cannot expect to run 
races tint il . they are firm on their feet, 
physically and mentally. This unsteadi- 
ness of feeling about life is the 
greatest difficulty that young people 
have to contend with, and while it lasts 
it is impossible to Judge their talent 
as writers. They should sinply wait 
until they grow older, and not conclude 
at once that they really have no talent. 
But generally real talent persists 
through all these difficulties and this 
necessary waiting. 

But if one does write, he can write 
successfully only about those simple 
things concerning which he does not 
especially care. If you care too much 
a tout any particular thing, that is 
quite certain to be the very worst thing 
you can write about. If you are merely 
interested in a character or a circum- 
stance which amuses you without involving 
your personal feelings, that is the 
very thing to write about. We would 
earnestly advise all young writers to 
begin by being humorists. Everybody 
knows he cannot be funny if he tries very 
hard to be: it is equally true that one 



- 



18 
cannot write good serious stories if he 
makes a great effort about it. Trying 
hard may teach you yourself a great deal, 
and indeed one learns little except by 
trying very hard indeed. But the results 
of the hard trying are not worth much 
as art. They are practice' experiments 
which have to be thrown away. 

If, however, you decide that you Want 
to go through all the arduous work of 
learning, and are willing to wait for 
success with the public until you have 
mastered yourself, and are content with 
life as it was made, the following 
suggestions may help you to learn the 
art of interesting pecple with short 
stories. But all the rules and direc- 
tions presuppose a healthy, sane mind, 
a certain amount of freedom from' care and 
worry, and of course a more than average 
amount or brains and general education, 
though certainly no more than is afforded 
by a good high school or academy. 

Note. In the following volume the 
word artist ic as applied t© short storie^-^ 
denotes a structure that produces the 
most telling effect on the reader. Often 
the word means elegant, refined, or 
technically flawless, as it is coimionly 
used, but we prefer to view art as inhe- 
rent effectiveness rather than something 
superadded. 



.' 



PART FIRST 



I. 19 

' TJk§ JUiX*£fLS£ KiP'M Si Shgrt Stories . 

All short stories may be divided into 
five different classes. They are : 
1. Tale, a story of adventure or incident 
of any sort, like many of Stevenson's, or 
preeminently Scott's or Dumas' s; 2. Fable 
or allegory, a tale with a direct moral, 
like Hawthorne's short stories; 3, StudjT, 
in which there is a descriptive study of 
some type or character or characteristic, 
usually in a series, like Miss Wilkins's 
studies of Mew England people, or Joel 
Chandler Harris's studies of Southern 
people, or studies of actors, or studies 
of sentiment; 4. Dramatic Artifice, a 
story who se value depends on a clever 
dramatic situation, or a dramatic state- 
ment of an idea, like Stock ton 's "Lady 
or the Tiger, ■ Richard Harding Davis's 
rt The Other Woman", etc*; 5, Complete Draim * 
like Maupassant's short stories. The . ; 
Drama combines all the elements found in 
the other kinds of stories into a single 
effective story. It tells a tale, it has 
a moral, though one usually more remote 
than the allegory, it has a study of 
character (for the dramatic cannot exist 
without a character more or less well 
developed to be dramatic), and it usually 
suggests some problem of life, or has 
some clever turn, or une^ected episode, 
or climax* Of course it is the hardest 
thing in the world to combine all these 
elements into one perfect whole, as Mau- 
passant does, but the mere combination 



20 

itself has powers and produces ef facts 
which would have been utterly impossible 
to the various elements uncombined. The 
combination produces a new quality, 
which belongs wholly to itself. So this 
fifth sort of story is much npre than 
the mere sweeping into one bundle of 
all the other kinds. 

In practical study we should begin with 
the Tale, because to be able to tell a 
plain, straightforward story well is the 
beginning of the very highest art, and the 
narrative style is verbally at the bottom 
of all story-telling. The Fahl e is less 
inportant practically, because the moral 
of a story usually takes ca^r'e of itself, 
From the Study you learn the descriptive 
style, next to the narrative style the 
most important to the story-teller. The 
Dramatic Artifice may be left out of view 
until the end of one's study, because it 
can never be effective until one has 
mastered narrative and description, and 
than to those who have the dramatic in- 
stinct it comes naturally. Such cannot 
help working toward a climax of some sort, 
and others will content themselves with 
the loss ambitious talo or study. 

We shall always work from the point of 
view of thtf drama, however, for it is the 
combination of elements toward which we 
should strive, it is the perfect goal. 



smsm. 



\k 



31 

General OutYl'ne of the 



Metho d of Writ ing Shor t Stories. 

MostHshort stories belong in varying 
degree to each one of the five classes 
we have mentioned. If narrative predom- 
inates it is a tale chiefly, though all 
the other elements of moral, character 
study, etc. , may be present; if des- 
cription predominates you call your story 
a study* The character of the subject in 
hand must determine these points. In 
discussing the typical short story t how- 
ever, we will take the balanced who 1© as 
illustrated by Maupassant's stories in 
"The Odd Number *, and from this type each 
writer can make such modifications as his 
own subject demands. 

The course of procedure in setting 
about the writing of a short story may 
be as follows^ 

1. First , one must have a* striking idea, 
situation, or trait of character, and 

only one. Few people can sit down and* 
evolve a situation out of their heads. 
They must hit on it accidentally in some 
way, and it must be very simple or it 
will not be completely developed in a 
short story, The length of a story should 
be the same as the bigness of the idea, 
no bigger and no smaller, and to make a 
story longer or shorter than just as 
long as the idea is to spoil the s-tory. 

2. Having an idea, our young author 
sits down to write his story, and he is 
very likely to fix his attention on 90me 
general idea in space, But that is fatal. 



h ■>'- 



; h.: 



22 

He must have something definite to look 
at. Observe Maupassant in n ?he Necklace? 
He begins, "She was one of those pretty 
and charming girls who are sometimes, as 
if by a mistake of destiny, born in a 
family of clerks,* Now this story is 
only 1800 words long, but Maupassant uses 
up atout 300 at once in describing this 
woman. He tells how she dre s-sed, what 
sort of things she had in the house, 
what she wished she had, what sort of man 
her husband was, what they had for dinner, 
her dreams and hopes. You feel quite 
well acquainted with the woman, as if 
she were your next door neighbor. A^d all 
the rest of the story is about this woman, 
tfhat happened to her, how she was delight- 
ed and disappointed, etc. Yler husband 
is hardly mentioned after the first. It 
is a story about this woman who has in- 
terested ;you, and everything is left" out 
but her experience. 

3. Having a right start, it is not 
difficult to go straight ahead to the 
end successfully, in a simple and natural 
manner. But still it is often puzzling 
to know what to select and what to reject 
of the many things that may present 
themselves to the mind. The invariable 
rule should be, Put in nothing that has 
not a bearing on the catastrophe of the 
story, and omit nothing that has. It is 
a great temptation if one has a fine 
moral sentence, an apt phrase, or a 
terse anecdote or observation, to put 
it. in lust where it occurs to the mind. 



23 

But the artistic s$o ry writer will sac- 
rifice absolutely everything of that sort 
to the inmediate interest of the story. 
That is to him everything. But apparent- 
ly trivial details that are in the 
thread of the story must he put in. In 
"The Necklace Maupassant tells how the 
wife tore open the letter of invitation, 
how she looked when she read it, what she 
said and what her husband answered; then 
how she went tp get the necklace, what 
her friend said and what she said. But 
you will notice that he sticks clos« to 
the iroman Of whom he is telling the 
story. Everything about her is of 
interest. Nothing else is. 

4, The secret of giving strength to 
a gtory is in a clever use of contrasts. 
X story that has been true to the pre- 
ceding injunctions will be a correct 
story, but it. will probably be weak unless 
it has strong contrasts in it, and to 
make strong contrasts one must match one 
description against another in each 
detail. In tt The Necklace 14 notice the 
skilful contrast in the latter part of 
the story of what Madarce Loisel actually 
did with what in the first part of the 
story she wanted to do» She wanted luxur- 
ies, servants, a fine house; but they 
dismissed the servant they had, rented 
a garret under the roof, etc. J2ach 
fa<*t in the last part is mate if with a 
corresponding dream in the first part. 
Thep at the very end of the story, her 



34 
friend, who is rijjh and still remains 
young with smooth, white hands, is 
brou^it face to face with madame who has 
grown coarse and rough? This constant 
and skilful Use of contrast and cross- 
contrast makes the real strength of 
Maupassant. 

5. But everything shoul i tend to the 
bringing out of a single idea or par- 
ticular thought of some kind, without 
which the story is valueless. The reader 
expects some pertinent conclusion, and 
if he does not find it he says the story 
is a failure, and when he has gotten 
the essential idea he does not care to 
read farther. He may read on to the end 
Just out of curiosity to see if anything 
more does happen. But if there is 
nothing more he is disappointed. In the 
story of "The Necklace* Maupassant does 
not hint at his real idea until the very 
end, and when he has said the supposed 
diamond necklace is paste he stops short. 
The reader says to himself irresistibly, 
"Oh, the irony of fate!" and he is ten 
times^nore pleased than if Maupassant had 
said it himself, though no one could 
ioubt he was thinking it all the time he 
was writing the story. 



25 
III. 

Mate rial for Sh ort Stories. 

An idea on which to base a good story 
must be original in some 'way, convey some 
new notion, or give a fresh impression. 
The struggle of humanity is to get out of 
itself, either for relief, or in the 
struggle to be better or to know more. 
In order to write a good short story, 
then, it is necessary for on*; to under- 
stand his audience well, to be informed 
of what the reader knows and what he does 
not know, and what he waifts to know; for 
what is old and commonplace to you may 
be fresh to another, and likewise (do not 
forget) what is new and fresh to you may 
be perfectly familiar to many another. 
Most writers do not understand their 
audience very well, though they have 
stumbled on something that happens to 
prove interesting. If they stick to that 
one line they are read: if they try seme 
other they often fail because they do not 
really understand the conditions of 
success. They have had mere luck, not 
consc iou s art . 

To get a new idea one must either go 
beyond the bounds of his everyday life 
(as if a New Yorker went to Paris) , or he 
must, make discoveries underneath the 
surface. The world under his feet (and 
above his head for that matter) is as 
little known, usually very much less 
known, than the world in the next town* 
There may be some curious thing: over in 
the next town. But anybody who will go 



36 

over and see it can describe it, and the 
teller of stories that are simply curious 
must be more or less ephemeral. But if 
one happens on a good stray idea he 
certainly should make the most of it. 

The ideas that one finds tfn ier his feet, 
do not usually come by mere luck: they are 
the result of skill and long study, and 
if a man &£$ get at than he proves him- 
self so much the brighter than his 
fellows. 

If one wishes to write about sentiment 
or the secrets of life, that is, stories 
of human interest, he will find that 
the most effective ideas f o r a story are 
such as determine the entire course of 
some human life. An idea is good or bad 
in proportion as it is instrumental in 
determini&g a man's happiness or unhap- 
piness. Such ideas are at the basis of 
each story in "The Odd Number". The 
incident that Maupassant narrates is the 
one great determining incident in the 
life of his principal character % and when 
that has been told there is absolutely 
nothing more of interest to say about 
that person* For instance, in the first 
story we have the fact that Suzanne ran 
away for *love and was happy. There is 
absolutely nothing in her life that is 
worth telling in a story. This was her 
whole life. Ye+ it was something we our- 
selves do not sufficiently understand to 
risk doing as Suzanne did. We want to 
know just why she did it, and what the 



37 
result was, to make up our minis whether 
we would act as she did under similar 
circumstances* 

In the second story we have a curious 
effect of cowardice. The act of the 
Coward was astonishing and we wonder if 
we would have been so affected* At the 
same tin© it absolutely determined the 
life of that man* It describes the 
supreme moment of his existence* 

In the ideas of all the stories in 
this volume several things are to be 
noticed- Bach idea throws some faint 
light on our knowledge of the ret ion 
of the herrt, or on the mystery of human 
life; each idea is astonishing or unex- 
pected in itself, that is, it is new; 
nevertheless, though we are astonished at 
the idea, we see how natural it is the 
moment wo comprehend it, and that makes 
it all th*t more astonishing; each story 
is an account of the supreme moment in 
sorrB life, and our interest in that life 
not only begins but ends with the story. 
This fact makes the story seem perfectly 
complete, and in no other way can a story 
be felt to be complete. 

There are other ideas used in stories, - 
an episode, an inci dent ,-~ but these really 
belong to the category of stray, odd, or 
curious notions wni«b one stumbles on by 
accident and which one may never meet 
again. 

The most effective idea fo^ a story, 
then, is one which absolutely determines 



23 
the destiny or some human being, and the 
more unexpectedly and abruptly and entire- 
ly it turn* the life current about, the ■ 
n»re effective will it appear. Maupas- 
sant's stories are, as we have said, all 
of thi s sort . 

One reads a story of Maupassant 1 s and 
it seems very sinjple. One thinks he can 
eas\Jy do the same thing. But the fact 
is that to tell effectively a story like 
one of Maupassant's, the writer must 
understand the life he writers about to 
the very roots. He must have a deep and 
vivid knowledge of the principles of 
psychology, of the actions and reactions 
of human feeling, — in short \ he must 
know practically all there is to know 
about the life in which the incident 
occurs* The incident means nothing 
except as it. offset*. a life, and an es- 
sential part, of the story is a complete 
and thorough knowledge of the life. 

Human life is so wide one man can 
know but one variety of it well. His 
natural bent of mind will determine vhab 
variety. Maupassant's characters in 
these stories (the best work ho did) are 
vary simple folk, there are few details 
in their lives at best, and they did only 
one thing of inportance, namsly the one 
thing he tells about. His stories are 
short because his characters are simple. 
The more complicated the character the 
w> re space it will take to elaborate it, 
that is. to name all the details it in- 
volves. Maupassant's char act atj? it may 



-<* 



f I 



29 

be observed, staid in one place and had 
few relations to the outside world. The 
characters that one can write about suc- 
cessfully are usually with mental habits 
like one's own, though outwardly entirely 
different: ft> r instance, if one's own 
plans and thoughts are on a large scale 
and far reaching, one's characters will 
be of the sane order, and the delineation 
of ♦hem will require an amount of 
space proportioned to their reach. 

The subject of literature is, however, 
almost solely the emotional side of life, 
and legitimate art does npt admit con- 
troversial theology or science, except 
such ideas as may be assumed to be al react/ 
accepted by the general reader. Accepted 
and conventional theories may be intro- 
duced with impunity. But when a man 
takes up a story he is most likely to want 
to know something about the emotional 
side of life, for it is emotions which 
determine the actions of men for the 
most part, now as in all t irre past. Any- 
tiling that will throw light on the emo- 
tional side of life or play upon the 
emotions in any way, is a fit subject for 
literature, especially stories. 



30 
IV. 
The Central Idea* 

Short stories are like pearls: at the 
very centre of a pearl is a grain of 
sand a tout which the pearl material 
gathered. At the very centre of every 
short story is gome passing idea such 
as almost any one might pick up. It is 
hard and practical, and alone is not 
worth very much, though sometimes it is 
a grain of gold instead of a gr r-in of 
sand. It. is the first thing the writer 
thinks of, however. He says, rt I have an 
idea for a story. " About that ilea he 
develops his pearl of a story. 

As example is better than any discus- 
sion, we will give in this' chapter what 
seems to us the first ideas on which 
Maupassant probably based his stories in 
"The Odd Number", that is, what he had ih 
his mind v/hen he first said to himself, 
*I have an idea for a story. " 

!• H appiness . In another book of his 
he tells of a little incident which 
happened to himself from which he 
made this story. He v©s travelling 
in the Mediterranean for pleasure, and 
on one of the island hie stumbled on an 
oil couple such as he describes, who 
toll him something of their history, 
which more or less resembles what he 
has given in the present story. The idea 
that carr&* to his mind was this* What 
a splendid proof it would be of the 
power of love* to make one happy if it 
could be shown that love has made this 



X?A 



31 
oil woman happy amid such surroundings. 
If she is happy here, love is the only 
thing that could have made her happy. 
The original idea was the thought of this 
clever way of proving the power of love. 

&• A Coward . It would be impossible 
to say what incident- suggested this story 
to the author as a matter of fact, but 
no doubt he saw a paragraph in a news- 
paper describing a man who committed 
suicide unier such circumstances as to 
suggest that fear of death led him to • 
the act. Most o f us believe that suicide 
is essentially a cowardly act, but in' no 
other Way could this be illustrated so 
strikingly as by this story of a man who 
in his cowardly fear of death took his 
own life . 

3 * T he Wolf . The interesting thing 
in the story is the sudden change of 
feeling in Francois from fear to rage. 
In some accidental way it was doubtless 
suggested to Maupassant that the human 
mind vibrates fearfully from horror ani 
consternation and timidity to the op- 
posite extreme. The incident of the 
wolf was probably a true story, which 
when linked with this idea became a 
pearl ♦ The incident without this thought 
would not have served, however, 

4. The Necklace . The author doubtless 
heard some story, whether the one he 
tells or another, in which a woman made a 
prodigious sacrifice for something which 
turned out far less valuable than she 
had imagined. No doubt the incident was 



33 

really that of a poor woman losing a 
supposed diamond necklace which in the 
end turns out paste, but it might also 
have been something else for which he 
substituted the diamon d necklace as 
being more striking. This suggested to 
his mind the irony of fate, how we labor 
for that which is a delusion. The addition 
of this general idea to the incident of 
the necklace made the crude story begin 
to be a pearl . 

5 - The Piece of String . The central 
idea of this is the notion of a bad man 
being made to pay the penalty for a 
fault he might have committed but actually 
did not. Probably the original suggestion 
or the grain of sand n&s ao incident of 
a man's picking up a piece of string and 
others supposing he picked up something 
valuable* That- was little or nothing 
in itself, but it began to be a pearl 
when Maupassant thought of using it to 
illustrate the additional idea that the 
slightest thing may crystal ize the 
current opinion about a man's character 
when in fighting against, a small injustice 
he exhibits all nis real weakness. 

3* t§ Mere Sauvage . This story is more 
the study of a character than a drama, 
though the character is indeed dramatic 
in itself. The original idea was doubt- 
less some description of such a vjoman. 
The preceding stories have started from 
an indident or a bit of human philosophy. 
This story probably started with a con- 
cept, ion of the terrible character' of the 






33 
Mere Sauvage, and the drama was invented 
afterward to illustrate the character, or 
wore likely such events really occurred 
in connection with the character. The 
events may have come from one source, 
however, and the character from another, 
perhaps out of the author's own mind* 

7. Moonlight, * The original idea of 
this story was doubtless the notion, 
suggested vaguely in some way, that 
moonligit could really influence a man's 
character. From this the author began 
to consider hov/ it could produce such 
an influence, and the most natural thing 
was to suppose it softened the character 
and made it susceptible to love. It is 
not for a moment to be supposed that 
there was any actual incident at the 
bottom of thi s. 

8. The Confession * At the bottom of 
this story, too, there was probably no 
real incident. The author perhaps 
found some case of jealousy in a child. 
It struck him as strange that a child 
could be moved so deeply by jealousy as 
to do anything very bad or to have its 
life permanently influenced. As he 
thought, he took the extreme case of 
murder; then to make it worse he added 
concealment, and made the whole dramatic 
by the death-bed confession. 

9 * 2j2 the Journey . In the opening of 
this story the author gives a little 
extra setting in which he says, "We 
began to talk of that mysterious assassin 11 - 



That is probably the idea his mind 34 

began to work on, the accounts he had 
read in the newspapers of strange 
criminals in railway trains. In order 
to make the case worse he put a woman 
alone with the man* Then he began to 
work out, what would happen, always 
remembering that everybody would expect 
some dreadful catastrophe, and whatever 
he made the two do it must not be com- 
monplace. He took the thing farther est 
from the natural expectation and made 
them fall in love. It is to be supposed 
that the whole development of this story 
was imaginary. 

10 • The Beggar . The theme of this 
story is the blindness of humanity to the 
suffering which transpires under its 
very eyes and which it would be only too 
glad to relieve if it could understand 
it. The story ends, "and they found him 
dead. . . What a surprise! " From this 
general thought the author probably pro- 
ceeded to develop the character of the 
beggar, on which he keeps his eye as he 
writes. 

11 • & g fo° 9t * This ghost story is 
like all others of its kind in that 
there is an apparition in a haunted 
ftouse, and in that the reader imagines 
some unrevealed crime back of it all. 
The idea of combing hair is perhaps 
unique. The author doubtless heard a 
ghost story in which this happened, and 
he fancied that was sufficient to make 
the excuse for a new ghost story. He ad- 



35 



mits somewhere, however, that he does 
not succeed very well with ghost stories 
as a rule, and this is about the only 
good one he ever wrote. Ghost stories 
are all too much alike to enable him to 
give individuality to more than one, which 
he gave in this case by his style and 
treatment. 

***. Little Sol dier . Sometimes a 
clever contrast ,^ naive characters, or a 
simple style of telling is good excuse 
for retelling an old story. The story 
of two young men falling in love with 
one girl, without either suspecting the 
other until one makes love to the girl, 
is contnon enough. Maupassant knew that, 
but it occurred to him that he could 
make a sort of new study of a soldier, 
for his •'little soldiers" are not the 
kind we commonly think of. He also saw 
that extreme simpl if lying of what is 
usually a complicated matter would 
have its own interest. So he told the 
old story in his own way. "Little Sold- 
ier" (singular, for the story is about 
the little soldier who died) is a study 
essentially, a new study of an old sit- 
uation, and in a small way also a study 
of a type character, the simple-hearfced 
Breton soldier. 

13. The Wreck.. This is another 
study, for there is no drama in the 
broad sense of the vuord. It is the 
study of an atmosphere and a sentiment, 
working subtly. Probably the author 



■i 



36 

had heard an account of two people being 
tbro^An together on a wreck in the 
manner he describes. To this simple 
notion he added the possible sentiirent, 
and made a delicate ptudy of it* The 
delicate study of the sentiment is the 
really valuable thing in the story, 
though the dr£anatic situation was 
necessary, of course, simple though it is. 

The peculiarity of the ideas on which 
Maupassant bases his short stories is 
their slightness in their original 
state as conpared with the ample soul he 
gives and the richness of the dress. 
Unless the writer has a wealth of materi- 
al in his o to mind and heart, such 
simple ideas as Haupassant uses become 
flat and absurd. To take a very slight 
notion and build up a f*ood story on it 
is the most difficult phase of the art. 
It is easier, and in its execution 
really simpler, to take an incident 
ready made that is strong and dramatic 
of itself and does not need so much 
addition. In a recent novel by Maxwell 
Grey, "The Last Sentence", (which is 
really only a short story in many pages), 
the situation of a Judge having to con- 
demn to ieath his own child is so power- 
ful in itself that almost any one could 
write a good story about it. The bOgin- 
nor should always try to find such 
large situations, because it is a great 
deal easier to handle them than the 



"v 



37 
smaller ones. The last story in Vol, 1 
of "Short Stories by American Authors" is 
almost a model for a clever idea. "An 
Operation in Money" is very cleverly told 
but it is an easy story to tell. Almost 
any one who thought of the possible power 
a bank cashier would have if he simply 
carried several hundred dollars away 
with him at ni $it , and was willing to 
face the consequences coolly, could make 
a story out of it which would at least be 
readable, provided he did not plaster it 
with sentiment or bad writing. The 
essential notion in this story is that if 
a man could be cool enough to face the 
situation, anl bear ten years in a prison, 
everything else that was done in that 
story would be easily possible. Perhaps 
not every one could easily conceive so 
audacious a man or so cool a deed. Any 
man, almost, would find it natural enough 
and any woman who could n't would be 
pretty sure to have a nature sympathetic 
enough to work out such an idea as that 
in "Miss Eunice's Glove", by the same 
author, in Vol. VI. of the same series. 
The idea of the criminal getting the 
lady's glove and the fact of his pos- 
session of it frightening her is much 
slighter than the idea in "An Operation 
in Money", and its effectiveness depends 
more on the synpathetic way in itfiich 
Miss Eunice is portrayed. 



|& g S fftjfl $f to§ story * 
In the preceding chapter we showed 
how a perfect short story was like a 
pearl, in which the pearl material is 
gathered around a grain of sand, that is, 
the incident on which the story is based. 
The grain of sand, or the actual incident 
in each case, is us el e s s w~e aeh e aoe 
until the moral idea or principle of 
life is added to it. In Happiness a 
realization of the power of love was 
added to the incident of the two old 
people who had run away and were happy. 
To the incident of the suicice in '^he. 
Coward was added the thought that cow- 
ardice concerning death itself actually 
led to it. In The Necklace the incident 
illustrates the general principles of 
the irony of fate* And so if we examine 
each one of the analyses made in the 
preceding chapter we shall find that 
there was a principle of life, a moral , 
or a realization of a general idea which 
was the real reason for the existence of 
the story. 

The second sort of story in our five 
different kinds was the fable, tfiich is 
a story told expressly to illustrate a 
moral. Though ordinary dramatic short 
stories do not have a rroral which 
shows itself, still under the surface 
in every story is something which corres- 
ponds to the moral and which we will call 
the soul of the story . The soul in any 
story is that element which makes the 



39 

story significant for life, which makes 
it have a bearing on the problems of our 
existence, and which makes the story 
a creation with a strength for playing 
its own individual part in the world, 
like a human being. 

Tales of adventure may be clever and 
interesting (we mean tales of mere 
incident, if such exist), and if one 
chooses to write so simply he has a good 
right to. Rut a story is very likely to 
live or die in proportion to the size 
of its soul, that is, in proportion as it 
is in some way significant for life. 
It is the soul of the story which makes 
it sink into the reader's mind and live 
there, and which makes him £© back to the 
story and read it a second or a third 
time. He has caught a breath of the 
infinite, or a glimpse of the meaning of 
existence which he did not have so 
clearly before, and it gives him life. 

If we should go over each one of the 
tales in "The O.^d Number 11 we should 
discover that every one without a single 
exception has a meaning of its own in 
regard to life. The Piece of Stri ng 
contains a curious incident. It is odd 
that so simple a thing as a piece of 
string should get a man into such trouble, 
such dire trouble. But that is not al 1 • 
How did it get him into trouble? That is 
of much more vital concern. We see how 
clearly the author has brought out the 
thought that the incident of the string 
was only the excuse of fate for showing 



40 
the man's real character* He resented 
the implication against his character 
just because he knew his weakness in 
that direction and realized that he 
might have been guilty though as a 
matter of fact he was not, and this made 
him determined to clear himself. He was 
really condemned to death by his owt 
consciousness of evil though he tried 
to believe it was an unjust persecution, 
and such a principle as that has vast 
significance for us who must live lives 
in the-worl d. 

La Mere, Sauvage illustrates the power of 
certain passions, and Moonlight the sus- 
ceptibility of the hardest heart to 
the influences which soften us, provided 
such influences are brought to bear at 
just the right point. The Confession 
throws a bright light on the tendency 
of the soul to recoil on itself under 
the influence of an evil consciousness, 
and ?he Beggar shows us how liable we 
are to intellectual blindness* 

But the young writer will ask, How is 
this to be managed? What is the rule for 
manufacturing the soul of a story, and 
putting it within the heart of the inci- 
dent? Alas, there is no rule, for Just 
here we touch on the vast unknown which 
separates those who have stories to tell 
from those who have not or who are not 
endowed with this sort of genius. But 
the soul of the story is born of much 
thinking about life and it s pr incipl es, 
its inner meaning, its significance, 



41 

whether intellectual, moral, or sentient. 

If one 3o es not know something worth 
knowing about life, something of value 
or suggestiveness, something new and 
meaningful, he has no material out of 
which to create a soul* In brder to 
create soul one must have the soul 
material within him to begin with. 

i ut if one is deeply and vitally inter- 
ested in life, he vill not care to 
attempt a story which does not have 
some meaning. His clever incident, 
his power of character-drawing, his 
beautiful style will all be held subser- 
vient, to the soul, the significance, and 
they will all be used to clothe and 
express the soul, which is a conviction, 
a feeling, an inward realization, and 
not a theory or creed or bit of clever 
information about life. The soul is 
drawn out of the deep wells of our being, 
and in the written story it is the ele- 
ment which gives intra; rtal ity. 



£*.w 



4fc 



VI. 
Character Study . 
The third kind of short story is the 
Study, which may be a study of alnpst 
anything, but we may consider it the 
study of character. This is then the 
third element to be considered in the 
construction of a perfect story. The 
tale and the fable tell about people and 
what they do, but a great many different 
kin is of people might 40 the things that 
are described. Indeed, if the characters 
wore woolen sticks they might po through 
all the motions just the same as if they 
were highly characteristic individual 
human beings. F-ut the finer the point of 
the story, the worn it has a soul rather 
than an obtrusive moral, the more individ- 
ual jnust be the study of character. 

1*8*.. The truth is, it is difficult to 
imagine a story absolutely without 
character study in anv fonn, but many 
stories have a merely conventional 
character study* In a story having a 
really or iginal character study the 
relation of the character to the soul 
of the story is usually vital, that is, 
there could be no soul if there were not 
a living character to which tlvs soul could 
be attached in some way, though the soul 
of the story is a very different thing 
from the soul of the chief character. 
The comparison of the various elements 



43 

in every perfect story to the different 
sorts of shox't stories ends here. The 
original idea or incident, the soul or 
moral, and the study of character cover 
the essential elements of the story. 
Each element is important and indispen- 
sable in some form, in greater or less 
degree. But perhaps most depends on the 
character study. We shall hereafter 
view everything from that point. 

Each one of Maupassant's stories gives 
a complete idea of some one character. 
Prom our present point of view, each one 
of his stories is the history of a life 
drama. The catastrophe turns the course 
of the life about. For instance, 
Happiness is a study of Suzanne. She 
was of good family, the Colonel's 
daughter, and she ran away with a common 
soldier and lived meanly ever after in 
Corsica. Her whole life was changed. 
The story has meaning because her love 
made her happy, but from the point of 
view of the character the woman was the 
story. In A. Coward we have one man 1 s 
life and soul history. Maupassant in 
each case tells the great and vital 
event in each life, and lets all other 
details go. So long as a life runs in 
its natural channels it is not interest- 
ing. You cannot know how much power is 
concealed in it. Nobody knows with wha»t 
force a cannon ball is moving until it 
meets some obstacle. Then there is a 
crash, and the violence of the crash 
measures the force of the cannon ball. 



44 
Nobody knows how much latent power is 
contained in a human life until that life 
runs up against an obstacle and its 
course is completely changed or all its 
force destroyed. The life may be sur- 
prisingly weak or surprisingly strong. 
In either case it become$a striking 
example, and the crash gives us a chance 
to study its moving principles* When 
the crash comes the whole life is laid 
open and we see its secret springs. 
That is what interests us in our general 
study of human nature. 

Every perfect story which describes a 
human drama must have one central charac- 
ter, to which all others are subservient, 
"here are stories of a family, or of a 
city, or of a nation, in which the family 
or city or nation is treated as an indi- 
vidual human being, and to all intents 
and purposes is a unit. Put we may 
think of the central figure in every story 
ea-se as being a single person, as is 
usually the case. It is never a group 
of persons not welded together into a 
body in some way, and when a groiqp is 
so welded together, you take the group 
for the purposes of the story as a body 
and not as a cluster of individuals. 

This statement that there can be but 
one character in a story may need illus- 
tration, for it is not patent at the out- 
set. For instance, in a love story 
there are two lovers. How is the love- 
story more the story of one lover than 
the other? the reader may ask. The reply 



45 

is that in every such case one such 
personality is much more interesting 
than the other in the mind of the 
author, and he always selects this one 
personality to tell the story about. 
The catastrophe turns the life current 
of this particular one aside, while the 
life current of the other goes on undis- 
turbed. In Happiness there are two 
characters, but the life of the cormion 
soldier went on after marriage much as 
it did before. The whole interest 
attaches to the lj,fe course of Suzanne, 
who was of higi family and for love's 
sake took wretchedness.' In The Necklace 
there are two characters, also, the hus- 
band and the wife. The story is all 
about the wife, for the accident happened 
to her. There may also be a story about 
the husband, how he felt, how his 

life was turned about, but' Maupassant 
found the story of the woman so much 
mare interesting that he told that and 
not tlis story of the man. In Moonlight 
there are the Abbe and the lovers, 
In the facts there is a storytabout each, 
but Maupassant chose to tell ''the story 
of the Abbe, leaving the story of the 
lovers technically undeveloped. In 
The Confessi on the story of the younger 
sister is told in detail while the story 
of the elder is only outlined, because the 
life history of the elder was not so 
interesting in its development, In On 
The Journey there is more nearly a 



46 

story of two people equally, but after 
all it is the life of the woman that is 
described rather than that of the man. 
In k ittle Soldier the very title' indi- 
cates that the story is of the little 
soldier who loved and did not tell his 
love and died. There is a story about 
the milk-maid, but it is only hinted at, 

The fact is, each life on this globe 
of ours stands alone. Very/ very sel- 
dom are two histories completely blended, 
and in a short story everything must be 
viewed from the standpoint of but one 
life. We may imagine a novel developing 
several lives completely. In a novel 
a whole world i& created, which is com- ' 
pi ete in itself. In a short stoiy only 
one incident and one life history are 
considered. Lines of possibility run 
out in every direction. It is often a 
temptation to follow some of them out. 
But when the writer turns aside from the 
one line he has chosen to start wit hj the 
story is spoiled* 

To assist the reader's thought in under- 
standing the meaning of life currents 
in & story, and how the main current 
is distinguished from the minor, we 
introduce at this point some mathematical 
diagrams borrowed from physics which are 
used to illustrate the action and reac- 
tion of forces. It is a 1 aw that when 
two moving bodies meet each is turned 
out of its course by the other in propor- 
tion to its size and velocity. In the 
accompanying diagrams each line repre- 



DIAGRAMS FOR PAGE 47. 
I, Happ iness. 

, Suzanne 



Her husband 



3. A Coward* 



-■ 



Coward 



3* The Wolf. 



Francois 



Jean 



4. The Necklace 




-v 



iW 



- 1 



Mathilde 



I»oisel 



/ 

loss of Neck 



y \ 




P\Bt 



£p' 



6, Piece of String 

Same as 2, substituting criticism 
for fear. 
6. La Mere Sauvage . D^eath 

tLa Mere 




47 

sents the course of a life. The sto ry 
that is actually told begins with the 
first cross mark and ends with the 
second. The story's development follows 
the line of the main character from a 
point suf fie ientw^be fore the catastrophe 
to a point sufficiently after, and the 
other lines come in as an influence on 
the main character* 

*n Happiness we have Suzanne's life 
going along evenly with that of the com- 
mon soldier, but on a higher level. Grad- 
ually he draws her life course down to 
his, and finally, when they marry, her 
life is suddenly blended with his and 
the two go on together as one to the end. 
The story is very simple. 

In the second, A Coward . the life 
course of the coward is pressed upon by 
continuous fear until he is turned in on 
himself and ends in a knot, that is, 
he commits suicide. 

In The Wolf the lives of the two 
brothers go along parallel for a time. 
Then the wolf comes up from below and 
kills Jean. The pair are carried up 
against the life of Francois, the wolf is 
killed, and the life of. Francois is 
carried off on a higher level. T^e 
event gives him a fine pass ion > which 
elevates his character, and his life ends 
in a parallel course but hi#ier up. 

In The Necklace we have a slightly 
more corrpl icated state of things. Mme. 
Loisel's life started on a higher plane 



a i 



43 
than her husband's but for a time comes 
down very nearly to his. Then the two 
come against a lifeless obstacle, the 
ball. This slightly depresses the hus- 
band for a time, but elevates the wife. 
Her line goes up until the discovery of 
the loss of the suppose! diamond necklace, 
when it goes do wn suddenly, and carries 
with it the line of her husband. They 
keep on going tiown until they have 
paid the loss and finally discover that 
it was paste instead of diamond. What 
happened after that we are not told, 
but we may imagine their rising to their 
former level, but probably not so high 
after ten years of depressing work, and 
going on smoothly to the end. That is 
only supposition, however, and is indi- 
cated by dotted lines. 

In A p i Q ce of String we have another 
case of a life thrown in on 

itself by exterior force, criticism, 
until it gets wound in so completely that 
it e nds itsel f. 

* n k a Mere S auvaRQ we have La Mere 
going along on a common level for a time, 
then she is Joined by the four German 
soldiers who To r a t inre fall into her way 
of living. The sudden news of the death 
of her son is represented by a line 
coming from above which causes her line 
to turn sharply across the lines of the 
soldiers, that is kill them, and immedi- 
ately after her line ends abruptly, hav- 
ing run into the earth, we may suppose. 



49 
VII, 
^at Make s a Story Wort h C elling , 
The editor of one of the large 
magazines recently" remarked to the 
writer of this tlxat the difficulty with 
the great mass of + he stories sent him 
was not in lack of power to tell but 
in the lack of something worth telling. 
The stories were nearly all well written 
commonplaces. The present time is 
peculiarly fitted to call out common- 
place stories that are well written rather 
than strong stories that are poorly 
written, as was the case forty years ago. 
Many of the stories actually printed in 
the magazines are so commonplace they 
are not worth telling, and are not 
materially betttfF than hundreds that 
are rejected. They are usually written 
by persons who have before written stories 
with valuable ideas in them, stories well 
worth telling, and the editor in accepting 
the commonplace story by the same author 
assumes that if the author wrote one or 
more fpod stories, stories worth telling, 
the present story must in sons way be 
worth telling, and he admits it to the 
pages of his magazine without actually 
judging it as he judges all the stories 
of a beginner. But that he admits the 
commonplace stories of a writer of repu- 
tat ion is certainly no reason why he 
should admit the commonplace stories of i 
beginner, as many beginners seem to 
thihk* They say, "My story was just as 
good as that one: why did n't he accept 



so 

mine as well as that one?" To be sure, 
your story may have been Just as go od as 
that one by a well known writer, and 
still there may have been no reason why 
your story or his should ever have been 
written, and if his worthless story had 
the misfortune to be printed, it is no 
reason why you should not regard it as 
good fortune that your worthless story 
was not printed. We know it is rather 
a difficult philosophy to regard it as 
a piece of good fortune when you fail to 
get into print, but that is often the 
truth. 

It is assume -i that any one who presumes 
to learn the art of shprt story writing 
will have had a fpod English education, 
will be able to write gr atrmat icall y, to 
punctuate, and to express himself with 
considerable freedom and fluency. If al- 
so he has mastered the structure of the 
short story as outlined in the foregoing 
pages, he will then be able to write a 
story sufficiently well to make it 
acceptable as far as the form is concerned. 
In the present chapter v/e wish to con- 
sider What is necessary as to matter 
to make the story worth the telling. 

In the first place, a story teller 

must be in touch with the thought and 
feeling of the public at any giv^n time. 
What was a good story fifty years ago 
is not likely to be a good story now. 
It may have lasting elements, but those 
would be due to genius, a thing we are 



51 

not now considering especially* Today 
there are a certain list of topics which 
a large number of people are thinking 
about, concerning which they wi sh 
information. On the side of these sub- 
jects they are especially susceptible. 
A story may be told merely to amuse and 
not to give information; still the prin- 
ciple holds good, for except in the 
direction that they are vitally 
interested, people are not sufficiently 
susceptible even to appreciate a good 
joke. 

To start with, then, the young writer 
must be f miliar with the topics of life 
that are upp ermo st in the public mind; 
still more, he must be in touch with the 
mood 4 hat is pre dominant . When the 
public is very serious, as it is when it 
has been stirred up about some great 
question of puU ic policy, it wants a 
nr>re or less serious story, and frivolity 
repels. On the other hand, when a reac- 
tion from its serious mood has come, a 
frivolous story pleases it most end a 
serious one is an abomination. At pres- 
ent the public is much in a medium state, 
inclined to become more and more serious, 
if we may be pardoned a sweeping and 
personal judgment* But each writer must 
realize all these things ffcr himself* 
Stories of provincial life, studies of 
different parts of the country, have been 
much in fashion, but the liking for them 
seems Just now on the wane. The keen 
observer will see the signs of the times 



52 

and rr>t insist on writing provincial 
stories when cosmopolitan ones are 
about r,o come chiefly into demand. 

In a book of this nature we cannot 
undertake to put the young writer into 
touch with the public as it actually is. 
He must do that for himsel f. But if he 
would work effectively he must gain this 
touch to some extent, at least. If what 
he writes is worth anything, it must 
help the public think out the problems 
which are actually before it. Hunprous 
light on the problem is just as valuable 
as any other, and back of amusement we 
nearly always find some serious substance 
So in whatever light you regard story 
writing, the point of view from which 
success comes is the serious one of 
helping the public to think out some 
problem in which it is interested, or 
at least to throw light, whether red, greer^ 
or white, on th^ j topics that are uppermost. 

Lest the reader may take the statement 
of the case too seriously, let us give 
an illustration ojfi a general kind. The 
public are always interested in love in 
soitb phase of other. But a love story 
which tells of a courtship after the 
ol d-fashio ned, conventional, stiff 
manner, would be very dull indeed as com- 
pared with an artistic account of a modem 
affair of the heart. 

What people like best is to know of 
something that falls in naturally with 
their own lives, and consciously ur 



I , 



53 

unconsciously helps them in a practical 
way to live, Unless it really touches 
their interests it counts for little. 
Simply to tell about something you know, 
however well you io it, is worth little 
unless your reader is also interested in 
it. If he knows all you have to tell him 
before he begins your story, he naturally 
finds it a bore. At the sane tine if he 
does not know anything about it, he is 
likely rot to care to know anything, 
What he wants is something that Just 
fits his own case, or falls in with 
something he has been thinking about. 
If he has been thinking about old coins 
or dead men's bones, these subjects may 
form the basis of a story that will in- 
terest him, Just as a story about a 
practical love affair will interest him 
if he happens to have a love-affair on 
hand himsel f ♦ 

The writer of a story does not write 
for the edior, or for his own amusement 
(if he hopes tg get into print), but to 
amuse or interest some possible reader. 
In ordinary social intercourse, if you 
expect to interest your friends you ip 
not talk about yourself or the things 
you are int -rested in, so much as the 
things your frienis are interested in. 
If you know anything n&w about anything 
a friend is particularly interested in, 
you feel sure that tilling him what you 
know will interest or amuse him. In a 
much broader way the same is true of the 



54 
public and the writer* If the writer 
wishes to interest the public (w.hi^ch is 
the meaning of success in writing), he 
writes about the things the public are 
interested in, and not only this but he 
tells something fresh or suggestive 
about these t epics, or he holds his peace. 
If any writer can say any practical thing, 
in a story or out of it, that any con- 
siderable number of persons would be 
interested to know, he can safely write, 
and feel more or less sure that he will 
get into print. If he merely writes 
for the sake of writing he does not 
deserve to get into print ♦ 

There are some persons who write 
larpelv for the public who have nothing 
whatever to say, but who have a clever 
way of saying nothing. A story may be 
beautiful for its style, which however 
means simply that there is something in 
the .fresh way of saying the old thing 
which actually throws a glimmer of light 
on it. Also a story that has merely 
a situation which strikes the reader 
as new, different from any he has met 
before, may be worth printing. As £ — ' 
general thing the stories currently 
printed have only one point of real 
value, but a story to be wrth anything 
must be out of the ordinary in at least 
one particular. A unique style, one that 
either* st imulat.es, rasps for charms may 
b&Vthe* one thing* • A new situation may 
be the one thing. A new character may 



55 
be the one thing, A little bit of 
original philosophy of life may be the 
one thing* But the author must know 
just what that one thing is and bend all 
his energies to making it tell* To write 
a story and hope it may have one good 
point is not enough* The chances are a 
million to one against it* The writer 
must know enough of the reader to krpw 
what will interest or help oV amuse him. 
This knowledge of the public and what it 
wants is the one great secret of success- 
ful writing. It is a fine and delicate 
knowledge, and has to be gained chiefly 
by experience an d experiment . Publishers 
themselves understand it very little, for 
they can seldom tell ho w a new book will 
sell . Magazine editors know the kind of 
thing that has proved successful so far 
in their magazines, and confine them- 
selves pretty closely to what they know, 
not venturing very much on new things* 
The young writer who is to be successful 
must discover something new an d u sef ul by 
experimenting himself, and when he has 
found it he will keep pretty close to his 
original line if he wishes to keep on 
succeed&ag* It is much like a miner 
striking a vein of valuable ore, whether 
gold, silver, or lead. He does not make 
any money until he has found his vein 
of ore, abd then he knows he will not . 
make much more unless he sticks to that 
vein till it i s exhausted. Of course 
every vein gives out in time, in sto ry 



i 1 O: 



56 

#ri>fcing as in mining. Then the author 

will have to give up writing or find a 

,**ew vein , but he should not abandon his 

Old vein until it is worked to the end* 

That a writer cannot hope to work 
more than one vein with very great 
success at a time is clearly seen by 
referring to the successful writers of 
the past* Scott wrote historical ro- 
mances* Dickens studies of low life, 
Trollope stories of hi$i life, Gilbert 
Parka? writes of the great Northwest, 
Mary Wiikins of New England, Cable of 
Louisiana, and so with all the rest of 
those who have made a place for themselves] 

It has been our observation that men 
rrfcst often take a good theme which they 
treat badly, and women a poor theme 
which they treat well.. We do not krpw 
exactly how the experiment would work 
in practice, but it has always seemed a 
plausible plan to suppose that a man and 
a woman, if they sympathized with each 
other, could write a story together very 
much better than either could write alone. 
In such collaboration the man should 
make the plot, furnish the general 
philosophy of life, and work out the 
practical details of construction* In 
this sphere he should have full rein. 
Then the woman should write out the story 
in her own way, since she is almost in- 
variably superior in taste, delicacy, and 
truth of egression. 

This is not altogether an original 



57 
notion, for Edmund Gosse (we believe it 
is he) has remarked in a paper on Collab- 
oration which was printed sometime since 
in the New ft eyi ew , that the very best 
collaborator a man can have in writing 
anything, and fiction above all, is an 
intelligent, sympathetic woman, only 
Mr* Gosse says she should have no lit- 
erary ambitions of her own. It is well 
known that several successful authprs 
are almost absolutely dependent on their 
wives for revision of their novels as to 
taste, delicacy, and truthfulness to the 
gentler sentiments, ?he great difficulty 
is to find a companion who is both in- 
telligent and sympathetic , for intelli- 
gence too often goes its own way, and 
sympathy wit tout intelligence is useless. 

However this may be, it still remains 
that the great bulk of the unpublished 
work of women is excessively commonplace 
in subject, and the great bulk of the 
unpublished work of men is crude in ex- 
pression. Women are, nevertheless, well 
adapted to writing short stories, and it 
is not unreasonable to suppose that this 
will some day be considered a peculiarly 
feminine art. The greax r number of persons 
to whom this book will go are therefore 
likely to be women, and though the book 
as a whole is addressed to men and women 
alike, we may be pardoned a paragraph at 
this point directly addressed to women. 
The One Essential criticism that can be 
passed on the greater part of the un- 



58 
successful attempts of women is that 
their work is hopelessly commonplace. 
There are women who have Just the oppos- 
ite fault, but they are few. That com- 
ironplaceness is a general fault of the 
sex we do not assert, though the fact 
that women doubtless have a narrower 
range than their brothers, accounts 

for a part of it. The truth is, a cer- 
tain school of writers which has held 
the upper hand in American literature 
for some time past, has drilled it into 
the minds of all would-be writers that 
nothing is too trivial or commonplace 
to be made the subject of a story. - F fte - 

^^js&a&BSk j4&^;.?:~<r^^'*~>*^*- ■■>• There 

is some truth in this point of view, for 
if one can extract a new idea from a 
most trivial and commonplace incident, 
as Maupassant often does, he may be con- 
sidered a genius. But there are very 
few in.dsed who are genitises, and those 
who are not geniuses try to extract some- 
thing out of the small and trivial and 
succeed in getting only the conuionplace 
and trite. You should write of the slight 
and trivial by all means if you can say 
something fresh and helpful and new about 
it. But if there is nothing valuable in 
the situation with which you start for 
your story, remember that you must put 
along with your trivial incident some- 
thing strong, fresh, and useful out of 



59 

your own powerful hold on life. The 
grains of sand about which Maupassant 
forms his pearls are poor, slight things, 
but the wealth of thought and feeling and 
knowledge of life which he adds to his 
pitiful grain of sand in each case is 
sinply luxuriant in abundance, and came 
from long, careful, painful observation 
of life and from personal experience of 
an unusual breadth. The young writer 
before presenting his work to the pub- 
lisher should be very certain that he 
has something to say or give to the 
reader which the reader can enjoy or 
use, and he must unler stand just how the 
reader is going to enjoy or use it. Un- 
less he can see this ani understand it, 
he should not believe that he has any call 
to wr ite short stories. Moreover, it is 
not enough to know that the story when 
told verbally has interested some one. It 
is infinitely easier to interest verbally 
than through writ ing, . so unless the story 
when told has a sort of electric interest 
it is not worth writing. Some people, 
of course, cannot tell a story half as 
well as they can write it; but they can 
imagine the effect which would be pro- 
duced if they could tell the story well 
in spoken words, and if when thus told 
they can see Just how it would electrify 
the hearer with its interest, they may 
know it is a story worth writing. But 

unless a story will interest the hearer 
very unusually one may be pretty certain 



60 
it is not likely to interest the reader 
at all. Of course there is the possible 
interest excited by a written style; 
but a skilful style is acquired only by 
long, tedious practice, except in the 
very rarest instances, and one cantpt 
fancy his style will count for anything 
until he has fully ten years of practi- 
cal experience with writing that has 
actually been published. So after all 
there is no real exception from the 
general rule for the young writer, that 
he must have something new and fresh or 
useful to say to the reader. 



61 
I. 

••JSo- Obtain a Good Command o£ Jianguage 
When a young writer asks a successful 
literary man how to obtain a f,ood style, 
he is likely to receive the answer, "A 
man's style is like a leopard's hide, a 
part of him. Any dress of words that 
fits the thought you have is a good 
dress, or at least you cannot change it 
any more than the leopard can change his 
spots. All you can do toward writing 
well \& to write naturally." 

This answer is true enough, but it 
does not reply to the young. writer 1 s 
question. When he asks how to obtain a 
good style he means to ask how he can 
best gain a command of . that instrument 
for reaching human minds and hearts 
callei language. No man is born with 
this command any more than he i s born 
with a conTnand of the violin* Exquisite 
music on that instrument is produced only 
after lessons and practice, and the samP 
is true of language* Some learn more 
easily than others, of course, in what- 
ever they undertake, but nobody learns 
without spending time and patient labor 
to le©rn, whether violin playing or the 
use of words, "Style " in the sense of 
one * s natural manner o < f doing anythin g, 
whether using words or playing the violin 
or walking, cannot be changed or culti- 
vated-. But "style" in the sense of using 
words well or ill, forcefully or weakly, 
with grace and beauty or awkwardly, 



63 

is a- thing that must be learned if it is 
to be possessed at all. Any one not 
befogged with literary theories will 
acknowledge that. 

In order to write effectively in any 
form, especially stories, a good coimiand 
of language is necessary, n e is en- 
do wed from childhood witji a certain 
vocabulary, which may be called natural, 

and all the simpler structures and 
metaphores become familiar instinctively. 
Ordinarily one would not study the dic- 
tionary for new words unless, having 
attained a considerable success in writ- 
ing he wished to perfect his powers of 
expression in the minutest details. But 
there are very few people Who know how to 
manage the words they already know* so as 
to produce effects with them, and this is 
just the knowledge they must acquire. *To 
produce music on a p iaao requires first 
of all a piano, which is like one * s 
natural vocabulary. You may have a #>o& 
pi^y&.o of a bad one, and if the piano is 
bad you cannot hope to produce very good 
music on it however well you play; but a 
skilled musician can get better music out 
of a bad piano than a poor musician can 
get out of the best instrument ever made. 
One may. be dowered by Heaven or some 
other power with a piano or a vocabulary, 
but to use either effective lyTV^fial ly 
necessary to learn how. * 

■ The method we shall recommend in the 
only effective one known, and is borrowed 



63 

from the private instructions of the 
professor of rhetoric whose textbooks 
are now in most general use* 

In general, the method is. Head good 
models of style. This is vague, however. 
There are a number of acknowl edged 
masters of English prose. S^me of them 
are De Guincey, Macaulay, Matthew Arnol d. 
Darnel Webster , and Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
Perhaps a more notable example among 
American writers is Washington drying, 
Perhaps the reader will ask, Why do you 
not mention some of the English novelist^, 
Thackeray, Dickens, Scott. George Eliot?* 
The fact is they sometimes fail in their 
verbal style, because they developed a 
practically new form of writing, namely 
modern fiction, and all their attention 
was turned to the construction of the 
novel rather than the effective use of 
words and phrases* Among novelists we 
know of no better model of style than 
Mr. Howells, for in verbal egression h« 
doubtless far excels the greater novelists 
who preceded him. Hawthorne, also, seems 
never to have fallen into the errors of 
style which belong to Scott, Dickens, 
Thackeray, and their contemporaries. The 
English essayists, however, thought far 
more of their feerbal style than of the 
foVmof construction they used, since the 
essay was a literary form fully developed 
before they began to write, and they are 
probably the most natural models one 
lould select for his first study. 



64 

Prom Macaulay select a few of his most 
brilliant and powerful passage s, such 
as the description of the Puritans in 
the essay on "Milton. ■ Take one of 
these passages and read it over and over 
unt il you begin to see just how he 
builds his sentences, or rather until you 
f e el it. It is not necessary to analyze 
an i got principles which you must apply. 
The valuable thing is to become so imbued 
with Macaulay* s personality as expressed 
in his style that you will insensibly 
write as he joes when you come to put 
pen to paper. Knowing all about his an- 
titheses, his paragraph structure, etc., 
theoretically will be of small value, 
but if you feel something of how it is 
done you can io it yourself aprp or less 
well. When you have become thus imbued 
sit down and try to write something, for 
instance describe your impression of his 
style. One pupil -.after a prolonged 
study of various passages wrote an essay 
on .Macaulay as a modvl of style, in which 
very much of the strength of Macaulay was 
reproduced, yet without a trace of what 
might be called imitation. It would serve 
equally well if /ou wrote out your impres- 
sion of the subject he has been discussing 
Take that subject in connection with him 
which from the first chiefly interests 
you. If you are interested in him as a 
model of style, write about him in that 
capacity; if you are interested in the 
light he sheds upon any topic, discuss 



/ 



with as mucrx force of language as he 
uses some phase of the subject which 
especially attracts you. • 

Follow this with De ftuincey's "English 
Mail -Coach", Matthew Arnold's "Culture 
an dinarchy" , especially "Sweetness and 
Light" (the first essay), Webster f s ora- 
tion in reply to Hayne , and Hawthorne's 
!, Mo*sses from an Old Manse. * In the. case 
of Hawt ix>rne'' it would doubtless be best 
in writing your essay to try to reproduce 
one of the stories as well as you can in 
your -own language after becoming imbued 
with his method of story-telling, but 
be sure to select a simple narrative sub- 
ject. 

Irving' s"Sketch Book" and Howells's 
"V-enetian. Life" might be studied also.. 
The student could write about Irving' s 
characters in a general way as Irving 
does about each, in particular, while 
bit-s of "Venetian Life" might be crys- 
tal ized practically as to its style in 
a paper trying to produce your impression 
of the scene in such language as Mr. 
Howells would have used. 

These studies to be valuable should 
not be taken tfp promiscuously, but ,wit>h 
a definite seriousness. If you sta'rt 
with Macaulay do not cease reading Him 
strenuously and studiously until you' 
feel master of him. Head one passage 
over and over until you feel it a part 
of yo ur very self, until you almost feel 
that you could have written it. <as wellr 



63 
If one passage fails to give you this 
necessary mastery, try others, and still 
others.;- never leaving one^ howeveij, until 
it is mastered. When you feel that you 
have gotten all you can out of your 
master, write yom- essay. If it is a 
decided success, leave him and take up 
another. If ti is a failure, f^o over 
t^^process again until you have accomr 
plished something that you can feel 
^assured of. Eacnh one of the authprs 
we have mentioned has a very different 
style from any other, and in a way each 
is representative of definite elements 
of a pex'fect style. From Ma caul ay you 
will get certain elements of strength, 
from De ftuincey certain elements of 
subtlety, and from each of the otherr 
some other element of value. Your st'i*dy 
cannot be said to be complete until you 
have gone over the while list, which 
wuld require many months of work even 
from the brightest.. But if you can givi 
only & 1 tout a i, amount of time, take the 
teae=»^ ones you admire most and study 
them x horou ghl y . 

When you are actually launched in" 
literkry work you will wish to make 
efforts to'^tn'large your vocabulary. 
Much can be done with this object in view, 
doing a lit'Vie at a time during a consid- 
erable, per io rf , and the practical means 
are the following'" Select passages 
from any of the writers mentioned, pr*- 



u 



G7 
ferrably the essayists. K Head over once 
for the idea, then once with an effort 
to remember the words, yet without 
trying actually to memorize them. Having 
given the passage two readings, clo se 
the book and reproduce the ideas in qs 
nearly the same, words and arrangement as 
possible, On comparison with the orig- 
inal you will probably find you have 
substituted some .words of your own, 
from the study of which differences ^oii 
will gain your chief advantage. Lookup 
in the dictionary the word you have used 
and the word in the original for which 
^./^substituted it. Trac& the deriva- 
tion and essential differences of eafch. 
Detect the shades of meaning that may 
be conveyed by each and you will have 
added not this wo I'd alone but many others 
to your vocabulary. 



68 
II. 

Narrat lye , Descr ipt io n , an d Dialogue . 
In fiction there are three different 
kinds of writing which must be blended 
with a fine skill, and this fact makes 
fiction so much the more difficult than 
any other sort of writing. History is 
largely narrative pure and simple, news- 
paper articles are description f!T.f*T*r, 
dramas are dialogue, but fiction must unit* 
in a way peculiar to itself the niceties 
of all three. 

^he young writer in studying for com- 
mand cf language for short story writing 
will have to take each style separately 
and master it thoroughly before trying 
to combine the three in a work of fic- 
tion. The simples-' is narrative, and 
consists chiefly in the ability to tell 
a simple story straight on to the end, 
Just as in conversation Neighbor Gossip 
comes and tells a long story to her 
friend the Listener. The way in which tc 
gain this skill is to practise writing 
out tales or stories Just as nearly as 
possible as a child would do it if he had 
a sufficient vocabulary. Letter-writing, 
when one is away* from home and wishes to 
tell his intimate friends all that has 
happened to him, is practice of Just this 
sort, and the best practice. 

Newspaper articles are more descriptive 
than auny other sort of writing. y ou have 
a description of a new invention, of a 
great fire, of a prisoner at the bar of 



89 

Justice. It is not quite so spontaneous 
as narrative. Children seldom describe* 
and the newspaper man finds difficulty in 
making what seems a very brief tale iirto 
a column article until ne can weave 
description as readily as he breathes. 

Dialogue in a story is by no mea r ns the 
same as the dialogue of a play* it ought 
rather to be a description of a conversa- 
tion, and vt;ry f very seldom is it a 
.full report of what, is said on each side. 

Description is used in its technical 
sense to designate the presentation of a 
scene without reference to events. Nara- 
tive-is a description of events as they 
have happened, and dialogue is a des- 
cription of conversation. Fiction is 
^essentially a descriptive art, and quite 
as ..'ranch is it descriptive in dialogue as 
in any other part . 

The best way to master dialogue as an 
element by itself is to study the novels 
og Dickens, Thackeray, an-4 George Eliot. 
Dialogue has its full development only 
in the novel, and it is here and not in 
short stories that the student of short 
stories should study it. The inportant 
points to be noticed ar« that only chafac- 
istic and significant speeches are repro- 
duced. * When the conversation gives only 
facts that should be known to the reader 
it is thrown into the indirect or narra- 
tive form, and frequently when the im- 
press ion* that a conversation makes is all 
that is important, this impression is 



70 

described in general terms instead of a 
report of the conversation itself* 

So much for the three different modes 
of writing individually considered* The 
important and difficult point comes in 
the balanced combination of the three, 
not in the various parts of the story, 
but in each single paragraph. Henry 
James in his paper on "The Art of Fiction" 
says very truly that every descriptive 
passage is at the same time narrative, 
and every dialogue is in its essence also 
descriptive, The truth is, the writer 
of stories has a stylo of his own, which 
we may call the narr ative-dewcript ive- 
dialogue style, which is a union in one 
and the same sentence of all three sorts 
of writing. In each sentence, to be sure, 
narrative or de script ion or dialogue will 
predominate; but still the narrative is 
always present in the description and the 
description in the dialogue, as Mr. James 
says; and if you take a paragraph this 
fact wil 1 appear xtv re clearly, and if you 
take throe or four paragraphs, or a whole 
story, the fusion of all three styles in 
the same words i$ clearly apparent. 

L et u s im agi n e a st or y u n embo d i e d in 
v/ords, for instance an adventure that 
has happened to the narrator but which 
he has never before told. He undertakes 
to give ftrJ-ir^^-as^-P a description of 
the natural impression v/hich the story, 
including its events, scenes, and charac- 
ters, has produced on his mind. In order 



n 

to describe this impression vividly the 
narrator must use all the means of lan- 
guage a t his command. If it is scenery 
which he wishes to describe be uses what 
is technically called the descriptive 
style, if it is character which he wishes 
to present vividly, ha will be very likely 
to use the dialogue style, and if it is 
events, scenes, sni character all at the 
same time whieh must be presented, as 
is indeed alrnpst always the case, he 
us e s a oo mbinat ion of al 1 these me a ns 
in th& combination style which we have 
described, an d this peculiar style must 
be learned exclusively in writing stories^. 
It is not employed in letter -writing to 
any extent, nor in newspaper work, nor 
in essay writing. It is a use of langua* 
peculiar to the art of fiction, and is 
the most difficult of all stylos to ac- 
quire, because it is the most varied, th« 
most flexible, and the most sympathetic. 
It is really a very complicated style, au. 
is mastered only by reading the great 
novelists with attentive care, and by 
constant and long practice in story 
writ ing. 

It is impossible to give fixed rules 
for the varying proportion of description, 
narration, or dialogue in any given 
passage. The writer must guide himself 
entirely by the impression in his own 
mind. He sees with his mind's eye a 
scene and events happening in it. As he 
describes this from point to point he 



73 

constantly asks himself, What method of 
using words will be most effective here? 
He keeps the impression always closely 
in mind. He does not wander from it to 
put in a descriptive passage or a clever 
bit of dialogue or a pleasing narrative: 
he follows out his description of the im- 
pression with faithful accuracy, thinking 
only of being true to his own conception, 
and constantly ransacking his whole 
knowledge of language to get the best 
expression, whatever it may be. Mow it 
may be a little descriptive touch, now a 
sentence or two out of a conversation, 
now plain narration of events. Dialogue 
is the most expansive an i tiring, and 
should frequently be relieved by the con- 
densed narrative, vhich is simple and eas** 
reading. Description should seldom be 
given in chunks, but rather in • ouches 
of a brief and delicate kind, and with 
the aim of being suggestive rather than 
full and detailed. 

In conclusion lefc us advise the young 
writer to cultivate a mellow and kindly^ 
style, sometimes sarcastic, ironical, and 
cutting, perhaps, but more often full of 
a sweet and vholoaome humor. ?hi*; style 
can be learned to a considerable degree, 
tor it is far from being entirely- a gift 
of nature.. It is the natural expi-ession 
of the heart brimming with love and life,-" 
an d e uch n ear t s a Ion e s hp ul d bel on p to 
writers of fiction. Dickens was a great 
master of this gracious, loving, humorous 



73 
style, and so was Thackeray. George 
Eliot lacked it rather markedly, and no 
•doubt that is the reason why today, in 
spite of. her great and masterful talents, 
she is read ..less than either of the two 
•previously mentioned. Dickens and 
Thackeray are read constantly more and 
rmre for no otter reason than the love 
and mellow sweetness with which 'their 
works are permeated. For this they are 
forgiven sins great enough, to damn a 
full score of novelists who lack it, .-.. 
and'their glaring errors are passed over 
with .the blindness born only of love* 
So we advise the young writer 'above 
everything else to cultivate the kindly, 
humorous style which vans by its sweet ness » 
for that is the really perfect combina- 
tion of narrative, descr iption, and 
dialogue in a* fusio.fi so complete that 
neither writer nor reader is conscious 
of it . " 



74 
III, 

?he Setting of j^ Story . 

Before beginning to write a story, 
that is, before putting pen to paper. .. 
you must get your incident, your "sfcul* 
or moral, and your central character. 
All these things must be clearly in the 
mind* The original rough diamond must 
be cut and polished perfectly prepara- 
tory to -setting in words. In actual 
practice one frequently works the story 
out by writing it, and no. method is 
better, or even nearly so good. But %no 
first draft must be completely thVo\*n : 
aside or recast if the story is to b« 
perfectly set. After much practice a 
writer will be able to perfect a story 
in his mind so that the first, draft will. 
be sufficient! y good. v \But th/e young 
writer will do'begt to sit down with pen 
in hand and write anything about the 
subject that comes into his mind. H£ » 
should' not trouble about 'setting, but 
plunge at once into describing <with as 
much simplicity and directness as' 
possible the events he wishes to narrate. 
Gradually the best fonn fo^r the story will 
develop itself ih the mi fid, ahd^the story 
can be gii^en an artistic setting/. It is 
a great mistake to think of. the setting 
first, however. The idea and all the 
det&41s and events must be developed in 
the ml^nd if not on paper before a really 
artistic setting can be given. 

But when a story has been perf ectl 



75 

conceived and is all read/ to be put into 
artistic form, the practical suggestions 
of this chapter may be applied. 

The back-ground of a story should 
always be th£ last thing to be chosen, 
but it is the first thing to consider 
when one comes to actual writing our,. A 
story is much like a painting. Some 
pictures admit no especially back-ground, 
as for instance a picture of an interior. 
Other pictures, portraits for exanple, 
demand an artificial back-ground, and 
this artificial back -ground is so chosen 
as best to contrast with: and bring out 
t he f i gure . I n st o ry writ i ng it ap p e ar s 
to be sinple portraits thst need least 
back-ground, for a story is a picture of 
the interior of a mind, while a painting 
gives the exterior of the expression. 
This will suggest thd £**«***h«* reason 
of the difference about back-ground. 
"A Coward* 1 , for instance, is a simple 
description of a man , and needs no back- 
ground* "Happiness; however, shows us 
a little scene, the couple in Corsica 
happy because of love alone, and a back- 
ground is absolutely necessary. Maupas- 
sant. 'opens with a description of a scene 
which is a perfect contrast w*fefexfefe«* to 
the scene in the story. The -story is. 
dark, therefore he chooses a light, bright 
scene, — a villa and fashionable people, 
surrounded with everything the world 
affords. He immediately touches on the 
common link, the common note of color if 



70 

it were a painting: he' mentions love, 
which is of interest to rich and poor 
alike. In this ca se* hi s setting describes 
people like those of his audience, the 
people who will read the story, and his 
mention of love at the very start indi- 
cates clearly in Just what direction the 
interest of the tale v/il 1 lie. Next the 
scene of his story is introduced with the 
utmost skill and grace , Cor sica looming 
above the sea in the distance; and this 
strange apparition suggests the stp'ry, 
which is then told in the simplest possi- 
ble narrative form, the events being 
described in the order in which they 
happened to the teller. 

At the end the author comes back to his 
beginning. He started with love, he. .. 
ends with love. The general rule- is to 
start out with a statement, of the idea 
which impresses you most, and end with 
thi s i dea. 

We have said a story, is like a painting. 
When one first conceives a story, events 
and incidents are the chief thing in the 
mind; but when the story is written, the 
description looms up and fills, the eye 
almost completely. A mere narrative 
without description (that i s #J sett ing) is 
like an outline charcoal head* The fin- 
ished portrait present's the ..living subject 
to the mind. It is alive in color, , 
action, and personal ity. Description is 
word painting*.: If one' tinder stands t be 
art of painting with pigments, he ought 



77 

easil y to under stand the .art o f pai nt ing 
with words.. When one paints a picture 
of a woman's face, for .instance , he does 
not begin with details, he catches the 
pose, the action, the outline. The 
modeling of the face must be seen and 
done first in masses of light and shade. 
No sooner are these laid in than degrees 
of light and shade develop. The details 
work out in their true relations of im- 
portance. By beginning with the largest, 
the heaviest, the most important f simplic- 
ity and effectiveness are secured. In 
M The Necklace" observe how Maupassant 
paints a worjian's character in words. He 
begins with the most striking fact of 
observation, the element which would 
strike you first if you saw the actual 
woman : !, She was one of those pretty and 
charming girls who are sometimes, as if 
bv> a mistake of destiny, born in a family 
of clerks.' 1 He fixes her station in 
life, and this usually (in Europe, at 
least) determines a multitude of facts. 
The remainder of the first paragraph is 
devoted to an elaboration of this idea. 
The next paragraph begins, "She dressed 
plainly because she could not dress well, 
but she was as unhappy as t tough she had, 
really fallen from her proper station. 11 
This sentence strikes the keynote of the 
st or y . The st u de nt wil 1 no ti c e th at t he 
first paragraph determines the general 
character of the situation, the second 
strikes the keynote. In "Happiness 11 we 



78 

noticed that the first paragraph des- 
cribed a situation, the second struck 
the note of love. In "A Coward" the 
translator has apparently made an error 
in the first division into paragraphs, 
for the real first paragraph is the des- 
cript ion contained in the first two. The 
third paragraph describes the hero as 
appearing to be a brave, dashing man, 
ani ends with the mention of his opinion 
about duelling. The keynote is /struck 
in a. : higher octave, as it were , or . by the 
clever contrast of the appearance of the 
man with the reality which is to follow 
and which has been suggested to the. 
reader already by the title, for the title 
tells us the man is a coward. The title 
should always indicate the main. idea of 
the s+ory if possible, but one will 
notice that Maupassant does not call his 
story "Happiness" and go on to speak of 
happiness in his second paragraph' he , ; 
speaks of the idea with which /the happi- 
ness is associated, namely lf loveV* So 
his title is rt A Coward" and he speaks 
of the man's dashing appearance in,soci-' 
ety. 

We *ill not oursue our 4 illustration from 
Maupassant, ffcr his practice in this par- 
ticular, though good, is more or less of 
a mannerism and is certainly no inflexi- 
ble rule. One may begin the description 
in a hundred different ways, but this 
general principle should be followed* 



70 

mention the most general classification 
first and the other details in the order 
of individual peculiarity as concerns tJu 
interest of the story. Thus if you are 
telling the story of a pj.ace, locate it 
as in Asia, Africa, or A erica; if in 
America what nation, if in the United 
States what state, then what part of the 
state. These particular facts may or 
may not concern your story. If they do 
not, certainly they should not be mention- 
ed. It i s very rare that facts should be 
mentioned just to give an air of reality 
when they do not have a bearing on the 
story. Maupassant never mentions a 
thing which does not have a direct bearing 
on the story in hand. When one begins to 
write a story he should realize what ■, 
facts have a bearing on the story and 
what not. Taking the body of those which 
do he should first mention the general 
facts and then the particular, Rowing as 
soon as possible what relation they have 
to the central idea, else the reader will 
find it difficult to be interested in 
them. 

A story is like a scene of a play in a 
theatre, but t he writer must put in the 
scenery as well as the actors, always 
remembering that a story is the descrip- 
tion of the interior of a heart, not so 
much the exterior, and in this differs 
from the painted scenery of a theater. 
But before one makes his actors act in a 
story, he must give a vivid irrpression of 



80 
the place, surroundings, dress, and 
general manner of his characters, whether 
from the interior point of view or the 
ex"» erior— it may be either as occasion 
demands. But a story is sure to be a 
failure without this picture in some 
form or other. Sometimes it is woven in 
with the* narrative, sometimes placed at 
or near the beginning. But it must be 
somewhere. The young writer finds it 
naturally existing in his own imagination, 
and fancies it must exist also in the mind 
of the reader. But this is seldom the 
case. One should take account of the 
stock of material he has on hand, and put 
down something in the written story to 
correspond to every detail of the pic- 
ture in his own mind. A well known author 
in Boston once said to the writer that an 
unwr. T tt=?n story was like a quart of mo- 
lasses in a measure, which when turned ottt 
stuck to the sides- and so yielded but a 
pint. The young writer imagines a #ood 
stx>ry, but when he has written it out 
the story is not more than half so good 
as he farcied, and he wonders what is the 
matter. The truth is, half of it remains 
still in the mind.' he has not put on 
paper all that be thought or felt or im- 
agined, which went to make up the story 
as he conceived it. 

The opposite fault of putting into a 
story description which is unnecessary is 
almost as fatal. This unnecessary des- 
cription comes from the author's fancy- 
ing that there ought to b e description 



81 
of some kind, and not knowing what des- 
cription to choose he describes anything 
and everything that comes into his head. 
What is really needed is description 
nicely calculated to produce a given 
effect, as with the scenery or costume of 
a theatre. Some scenery and some costume 
are used simply because there must be 
scenery and there must be costume; but 
an effective play has scenery and costume 
which directly aid in the development 
of the nptive* The case is much the same 
with short stiory-wr it ing' the best des- 
cription is that which is chosen with 
direct reference to the motive of the 
tale . 

Put how shall one choose? That is the 
hard question, of course, and can only be 
answered by experiment* Would you know 
what will prove effective? First , observe 
what has proved effective in the best 
models, and then try a story of your own. 
When it is finished read It to a friend. 
If you keep your wits atout you suffici- 
ently you can easily tell from his ex- 
pression of face or your own conscious- 
ness whether a passage is good or bad, 
effective or weak. If it is weak, all 
you can do is to throw it out bodily and 
write another. But the young writer must 
remember that the test of a story is its 

power to hold the interest of some par- 

ticular real person. 



83 
IV. 

Writers of plays understand perfectly 
well the principles of dramatic construc- 
tion, and that an interesting plot con- 
sists more in the skill with which the 
writer leads the reader on from point to 
point than in any good fortune in getting 
dramatic material in the first place. 
A npst interesting story can often be 
made out of poor material if the details 
of incident are so arranged as to excite 
the interest of the reader. Dramatic 
construction is purely a matter of ar- 
rangement of the various incidents, large 
an 1 simll; but it is amost delicate task 
and only a master can make an otherwise 
comnonpl ace st ory int ere st i ng by thi s 
means alone* 

The question which many young wri'ters 
nov«adays put to themselves when they are 
writing a story is, "Would a human being 
in real life act in just this way* ■ Thi* 
is an excellent, question to ask, but if 
you mean to make an interesting story 
another question must follow, rarely, 
"Will this situation be most effective 
in bringing out my central idea?* 

Keal life is like the whole earth, a 
ball eight thou sand mil es in diameter, on 
which we are mere pigmies* This great 
earth is fearfully and wonderfully com- 
plicated, with mountains , oceans, rivers, 
and strata of rocks, besides a great 
moulten mass inside. A million items gp 



83 
to make up :the events of everyday life. 
If one of those million items were omit- 
ted all might be different, for instance 
how different would they be if the sun 
should cease to shine or the moon to 
revolve about the earth! Life is so 
complicated that we cannot understand it.. 
A story is intended to help us understand 
the principles and phases of the great 
world of e notion and motive, and ought 
to be a little world in itself, practi- 
cally, just as a globe is a miniature of 
the earth, and th.is miniature of the 
world of em&on while it is much simpli- 
fied does give us certain general ideas 
we could not possibly get from a section 
of the real world, which is all we can 
get witMn the range of -our eye at one 
t ime $ r fke real ist s el a im that we shoul d 
study the world by taking a slice of it, 
A better plan would seem to be the making 
of a model like a school globe. 

A shox*t story ought not to be so rpuch 

a description of real life Just -. as one - 

sees it— -a photographic reproduction, aa 
a skilfUt\y made model. An artistically 
painted portrait is much better thar a. 
photograph Just because it catches and 
accentuates the important characteristics 
of the face, leaving out a score of 
trifling details which mean nothing one 
can conprehend %nd 6re really disturbing 
elements. A story should not-b.e a re^ro- 
ductiofc of life , but the creation of a 
littl^ n*> del of the world which.' will bring 



84 
out strongly certain truths and features 
without superfluous distracting details. 

If we go on the principle that a short 
story must be created rather than imi- 
tated we get an entirely new point of 
view concerning plot construction. We 
take our lump of clay (our material for 
a story) and model it with reference 
first of all to its own balance and unity 
and perfection, and after that we make ^ 
it as much like the real object before us 
as we can* If it is well constructed, 
well and harmoniously modelled, then the 
np re it is like the original in real, life 
the better the story. But i f we try 
first to make it an imitation, neglecting 
its own harmony and proportion and beauty 
as an object by itself, our effort to be 
true to nature fails also. 

The method of making a plot interest- 
ing, that is, constructing the items 
of incident from point to point so as to 
lead the attention on, has been devel- 
oped only in playwriting, and the best 
models of perfection in this direction 
are Shakespere's plays. The general 
method is as follows, however: 

Most stories are stories of some per- 
sonality. In such stories one begins 

with the central figure. He is intro- 

duced, his character is determined as well 
as possible, just as it is before anything 
happens to him. The writer thinks care*' 
fully of what characteristics will come 
out in the development of the story and 



85 
describes these. A good writer never 
brings in any characteristic that does 
not have some bearing on the future 
development. This character-study the 
reader may see clearly in the first three 
pages of "The Necklace". Mme. Loisel is 
pretty fully set forth, but everyone 
of the items has a bearing on the story 
that is about to be told. At the end tb^ 
fact is incidentally thrown in that she 
had a friend who was rich. This furnish- 
es a little contrast to set off her own 
position, bu* it is really introduced to 
provide for the incident of the borrowing 
t hat c ome s 1 at er . 

If the writ tar can interest the reader/ 
in his central character he has the 
beginning of his plot construction. In 
short stories this is the easiest method, 
but there are other ways. In "Haml et * 
we begin with the ghost. The ghost 
figures as the determining character 
through the whole play, and to interest 
the reader or hearer in t he ghost is 
enough to hold his attention and dr aw out 
his expectation. Drawing out the 
interest is like catching a fish. You 
must bait your hook and get the fish to 
swallow it. After tj>at by skill you 
draw him in. If .vou can catch the inter- 
est of the reader at the beginning of 
your story you can by skill lead him on 
successfully. But the first and a 11 -im- 
port ant object is to catch his interest 
in the first place with a bit of real life 



^ 



86 

and the promise of more. Maupassant 
catches the interest by describing Mme. 
Ijoisel. Shakespere catches the interest 
by the ghost scene. 

Shakespere always brings out his bait 
with a little incident that illustrates 
and suggests the central motive of the 
play. In "Romeo and Juliet" we have the 
opening scene a street brawl between the 
rival houses, which suggests the hatred 
of the two houses of Montague and Capulet, 
out of which comes the whole difficulty, 
In "The Merchant of Venice" the opening 
scene shows Bassanio borrowing money of 
Antonio, who in turn borrowed of the Jew, 
about which centres the interest of the 
whole play. 

A play is more like a novel than like 
a short story, for in so long a production 
as a play or a novel it i s impossible to 
begin by describing a character, because 
The reader would get tired before the 
description is finished* In the longer 
production, also, there is a group of 
characters, who in combination workout 
the plot, while a short story turns about 
the life and action of one leading 
character to whom all the others are 
subservient. But in either case, the 
first thing to be done is to interest the 
reader by some means or other in the 
thing (whatever it may be) which makes 
the story go, the cause t tot lies at the 
root of the action. If you take the 

il 'ust~nti;.r» ^f modeling a ball, it is 



87 

finding the centre of the ball. No 
sculptor in trying to model a cannon ball, 
for instance, would begin at one side. 
He al ways begins at the centre with a 
little round lump of clay and builds out. 
If he is modeling a man he begins with a 
little round lump of clay on a stick for 
the head. Gradually he 'develops the head 
from the interior outward, and then he 
has a point to which he can ref sr every- 
thing else and balance the whole figure. 

So much depends on starting at the right 
point that perhaps a few more illustrations 
might be in place here. The reader 
shoul d observe that the initial idea or 
incident is the centre abou- 1 v;hich the 
whole subsequent, interest centres, It 
is absolutely necessary to get at the 
centre just as quickly as possible, thou$i 
sometimes one has to do a little boring 
in order to get there. One must start 
with the reader's natural, normal life, 
just as you must bring your baited hook 
near where a fish happens to be. But 
unless the bait is on a direct line to 
your hand and you are ready to pul in, 
your fish swallows the bait and shies off. 
The mental process is thinking of the 
reader and of your central idea at the 
same tame. You must use all your powers 
to catch the reader, but have the line 
ready to pull him straight in. 

It i s said that most manuscript readers 
after looking at the beginning of a story 



88 
pass to the end. The end of a story is 
commonly the kernel of the idea in the 
original conception, and in writing the 
progress of the story from the beginning 
to the end is determined almost entirely 
by the end, A starting point of interest 
may be secured, but this oace in hand the 
writer must turn his eyes steadfastly 
toward the denouement and shape his stor.> 
accordingly. This is the dramatic inc in- 
dent, the surprise, the effective climax* 
Every one krows that it is important to 
the reader to have an interest in n ho" 
the story is coming out. - The ideal 

story writer will accomplish two things 
at the very start: he will tell enough 
about the climax to make the reader in- 
tensely interested to know what it is 
going to be f and also he will take good 
care not to disappoint the expectation 
he rouses in the finished result. The 
expectation must be exactly proportioned 
to the result. If the expectation is 
great and the climax trivial, the reader 
is disgusted. If the expectation is 
small an-i the climax really great, the 
reader is not prep ared x for it and fail? 
to appreciate it. 

In selecting a dramatic conclusion 
several characteristics must be sought. 
First, the climax must be une^ected, and 
an unexpected event or action is much 
better than the presentation of an unex- 
pected general idea, — that is, something 
unexpected ought to happen / Second, this 
event must he. not only unexpected but 



39 

at the same tirre perfectly natural. If 
it is unnatural the reader exclaims, 
"Absurd!" and throws the story aside. If 
it is both unexpected and natural, he says, 
"How strange I did not think of that! " 
and is accordingly deeply interested. 
Storo.es that end simply and naturally are 
usually commonplace, and stories that end 
unexpectedly are often unnatural an i 
absurd. Which climax is the worse it 
would be hard to tell. Put valuable 
story telling is chiefly found in the 
ability to discover *ome idea that is ^** 
perfectly simple and natural, but. new, 
unlfloked for. This is much more than a 
trick: it is real knowledge of life. 
There is a great deal of the trick in it, 
but in Maupassant's stories one will find 
no re real life than trick, whichever 
the story you select. 

As we hav e hi nt o 4 a bo ve , t he dr amat i c 
construction of a story from ^he begin- 
ning to thij end is a matter of creating 
Just the right degree a f expect at ion , not 
too much or two little, and this really 
requires a great deal of cleverness. The 
beginning, as we have said in the earlier 
part of this chapter, gives the clue to 
the denouement. Something is described 
that must bring about some conclusion. 
A problem is presented which must be 
solved. In the beginning are all the 
-elements of the situation* The question 
immediately arises as to how the conclu- 
sion worked itsalf out of the situation, 
and indeed what tt?e conclusion really was. 



80 

As the writer proceeds from his problem 
to his conclusion he tells everything 
except the vital point. Just the thing 
that happened he is very careful to con- 
ceal. The reader may know in a general 
way what it must be. If he is at all 
clever he should be able to guess this, 
for all the facts in the case must be 
before h im, and if he puts them together 
properly he wil 1 know* But the actual 
material event which happens must be 
held strictl -/ in reserve. 

In dramatic development the writer sets 
forth facts and ideas which bring the 
reader nearer and nearer to the conclu- 
sion. The reader must see and understand 
that each idea brings him nearer or he 
will lose patience and skip* At the same 
time, he must be held back while the 
story moves in its own even way, like 
fate. The attitude of the authpr in 
telling his story is of one who is per- 
fectly cool-headed and indifferent about 
the conclusion because he knows it per- 
fectly well, and is "entirely confident of 
his ground. He walks straight ahead 
calmly and steadily, never turning aside, 
never pausing unnecessarily, but also 
never hurrying. The whole secret of 
dr amat ic cv n st ru c 1 20 n , when once yo u h av e 
a dramatic situation to construct, is to 
go ahead steadily, telling ev ry detail 
that has the least importance but never 
stopping for a detail t v ^at has not its 
definite' place in the development. To 



hold the mind steadily on its course in 
this way is possible only to a master, 
for even the somewhat experienced writer 
will faufclter at times, will stunble a 
little, or grow tired and halt, or rush 
on with disastrous haste. But the more 
evenly and steadily one can proceed, 
the more perfect will be the dramatic 
construction of the story* Maupassant 
seldom wavers for even a moment. 

In practice the young writer should 
consider first his conclusion, If he feels 
that he has a good dramatic conclusion, 
he sits down to write his story, He 

finds it exceedingly hard to begin; but __ 

the riXle for beginning is this: Ask what 
caused the catastrophe. When the writer 
has determined that he should plunge at 
once into a description of it. When he 
has once described the situation he has 
only to go straight on to the conclusion* 
The difference between a short story and 
a novel is that in a short story the 
interest proceeds on a straight line hvm 
the situation to the cone lus ion f while in 
a novel the writer has to go back and 
bring up various elements which in com- 
bination produce the conclusion. But a 
short story proceeds on a single line* 

In the chapter on the setting of the 
story we have spoken of various things 
that come before the description of the 
situation or the determining cause or 
thfc determining character, *ut. until 
one has become very skilful ho should in 



02 

actual writing leav" these trimmings, if 
we may call them so, until the last. His 
natural starting point is the situation 
with /bich the story starts. That is 
the foundation of the perfect structure. 
A house when it is built may have a lawn 
in front of it and be approached by walks 
and drives. But the builder builds his 
house first and grades his lawn and 
drives afterward. The builder of a story 
should do tne same. 



7 

V, 

Imaginat ion and Realit y. 
If one succeeds once in getting the 
right point of view in fiction writing, 
that a story has for its object the 
expression of some idea, some principle 
of life, some moral, or some curious 
fact in nature, or some strange event, 
or some humorous view of humanity, or 
some pathetic view, or some charming and 
sweet view, or some fresh and invigorat- 
ing view, — if the writer once thoroughly 
understands that a story must have an ob- 
ject and not be told simply for the sake 
of telling a story, tnen it becomes sim- 
ple enough to say that the whole struc- 
ture should be so arranged and built up 
as W bring out this one idea, whatever 
it may be, with the greatest possible 
clearness and force. As a player* on a 
piano will strive Consciously to secure 
Just the right time , and movement , and 
loudness or softness, and Just the right 
harnpny of all the varying notes to bring 
out his musical ■ *theme, so the writer 
playing upon the xiearts of his readers 
wi^l look with scrupulous anxiety to see 
tha f he gets just the right movement and 
time, just the right suggestivenes s and 
just the right reserve, and of course ' 
just the r ight harmony of notes, — that is, 
just the right arrangement of details and 
events. It would seem preposterous to 
let any outside circumstance determine for 
a writer of music the selection of chords, 



94 
much less the acini as ion of discords; but 
that is exactly what a writer of fiction 
does when he tells a story just as it 
happened in real life. His object should 
have been to play upon the heart of the 
reader a beautiful tune of life: instead 
he produces a jangle of discords. 

In these latter days the fact has 
been somewhat lost sight of that litera- 
ture, above all story writing, is a work~^ 
of creative imagination. Fiction is 
indeed supposed to be created, and we talk 
about it as untrue and imaginary; but the 
young writer fancies that after all the 
author of a novel knew the facts in the 
case from real life, and judging that 
they would make a good story set them 
down in order without creating much from 
the material of his own brain. The young 
writer does not see exactly how to create 
and so surreptitiously steals from 
nature, trusting that nobody will find it 
out, or i f it is found out that he will 
be in the very best company. 

This is the extreme opposite of the 
other view that fiction is a mere fabri- 
cation, and consequently bad. Neither 
extreme must be taken too seriously, but 
it is only fair that the two should be 
set up against each other, and the 
present writer "is not the first to do it. 
An eminent critic once said, "In fiction 
everything is true but the names and 
dates, in history nothing is true but 
the names and dates." 



95 
The proposition that the description 
of a real incident just as it happened is 
untrue to life seems a paradox, but a 
little explanation will make it clear ♦ 
fieal life is too large and complicated to 
be fully understood. Certain persons do 
certain things under certain circumstan- 
ces: why? No one can tell. It may have 
been a natural, spontaneous motive from 
the heart, or it may have been some triv- 
ial accident. The wind may have blown the 
curtains, which suggested a forgotten 
memory, which may have made Jane say, 
"Yes, I could be happy" when John asked . 
ho ■■■•/ she woul d enjoy coming to live in his-^y 
new house »on the hill. The relator of _^\ 
this incident would natural ly that Jane ^ 
made that remark because she loved John, 
and when afterward she denied it she woul d 
be called fickle-hearted* In a real 
event you can never krow what possible 
forces and facts are present which are 
unknown to you and must therefore be 
omitted in the accounting, ant the ab- 
sence of these throws an entirely false 
light over all the facts that ax*e observ- 
ed and stated as the facts of the case. 
When tht; imagination creates a situation 
there can be no question as to whether 
the whole case is stated or not. The 
mind which created knows what was created, 
and conclusions drawn from those facts 
are logical and Just.. To be true, the 
creation must be constructed on exactly 
the same principles that obtain in real 



96 
life. The author by long study, obser- 
vation, and thought discovers certain 
principles of life, and by the use of 
these principles he constructs a li fa 
which i s much more simple than the infin- 
ite complication of re/ 1 life, but is 
subject to the same laws an i far easier 
to understand. In real life a thousand 
currents cross each other, and counter 
cross, and cross a#ain. Life is a maze 
of endless continuity, to vybich, neverthe- 
less, we desire to find some key. Fiction 
is a picture of life to which there is a 
key, and by analogy it suggests explana- 
tions of real life. It is of far more 
value to be true to the principles of ^\_ 
life than to the outer facts, The outer 
facts are fragmentary and uncertain, 
me r e p as s in g s u gp@ st io n s , s i'pfos i n th e 
darkness. The principles of life are a 
cl ew of t h rated vn i cb may f*u i de the human 
judgment through many dark and difficult 
pl a ce s . It is to t he se that th e wr it or 
of fie- ion must be true. 

In a real incident the writer sees a si 
idea which. Lie thinks may illustrate a 
principle he knows of. (See analysis of 
ideas of "The Odd Number" in Part First, 
Chapter IV. ) The observed fact must 
11 lu str at e t he p r mc ipl e , but h e must • 
shape it to that end. A carver takes a 
block of -\ood and sets out to make a vase. 
First he cuts away all the useless parts. 
The writer should rejec" all the useless 
facts connected with his story an i re- 



9? 

serve only what illustrates his idea. 
Often, hoover, the carver finis his 
block of wood too small, or imperfect. 
Perfect blocks of wood are rare, and so 
are perfect stories in real life* The 
carver cuts out the imperfect part ani 
fits in a new piece of wood* Perhaps the 
whole base of ^is vase must be made of 
another piece and screwed on. It is 
quite usual that the whole setting of a 
story must come from another source. 
One has observed life in a thousand 
different phases, just as a carver has 
accumulated about him scores of different 
pieces of wood varying in shape and 
size to suit almost any possible need. 
Wften a carver makes a vase he takes one 
block for the main portion, the starting 
point in his work, and builds up the rest 
from that. The s^ory writer takes one 
real incident as the chief one, and 
perfects it artistically by adding 
dozens of other incidents that he has 
observed. The writer creates only in 
the sense that the wo@d carver creates 
his vase. He does not create ideas out 
of nothing, any more than the carver 
creates the separate blocks of wood. 
The writer may coin his own soul into 
substance for his stories, but creating 
out of one's mini and creating out of 
nothing are two vvry different things. 
The writer observes himself, notices how 
his mind works, how it behaves under given 



.98 

circumstances, which gives him material 
exactly the same in kind as that which 
he gains from observing the irking of 
other p eopl e 1 s minds. 

But the carver in fashioning a vase 
thinks of the effect it will produce, 
when it is finished, on the mind of his 
customer, or on the mind of any person who 
appreciates beauty, and his vhole end and 
aim is for this result. He cuts out 
what he thinks will bidder, and puts in 
what he thinks will help* He certainly 
does a great deal more than present 
polished specimens of the various kinds 
of woods he has collected. The creative 
writer — who intends to do something more 
than present polished specimens of real 
life — must work on the same plan with 
the carver. He must write for his reader, 
fo r his audience ♦ 

But just yfoat is it to write for an 
audience? The essential element in it^"" 
is some message to somebody * A message 
is of no value unless it is to somebody 
in particular. Shouting messages into 
thv air when you do not krow whether any 
one is at band *o hear, would be equally 
foolish whether a writer gave forth his 
message of inspiration in that way, or a 
telegraph boy shouted his message in 
front of the telegraph office in the hope 
that the man to vhom the message was 
directed might be passing, or that some 
of his friends might overhear it, 

The newspaper reporter goes to see a 



j 



99 
fire, finds out all about it, writes it 
up, and sends it to his paper. The paper 
prints it for the reads rs who are anxious 
to know what the fire was and the damage 
it did, The reporter does not write it 
up in the spirit of doing it for the 
pleasure there is in it, nor does he al- 
low himself to do it in the manner his 
mood dictates. He writes so that certain 
people will get, certain facts anl i deas. 
The facts he had nothing to do with creat- 
ing, nor did he make the desire of the 
people. He was simply a messenger, a 
purveyor. 

The writer of stories, we have said, 
must write for an audience, but he 
does not go and hunt up his audience, 
find out its needs', and then tell to it 
his story. He simply writes for the 
audience that he knows, that others have 
prepared for him. To know human life, to 
know what the people of the United States 
really need, that is a great ask, a work 
for a genius. It resembles the building 
up of a daily paper, with its patronage 
and its study of the. public pulse. But 
the reporter has little or nothing to jp 
with that. Likewise the Ordinary writer 
should not trouble himself about so large 
a problem, at least until he has mastered 
the simpler ones. Writing for an audience 
if one wants to get printed in a certain 
magazine, is writing those things which 
one finds by experience the readers of 
that magazine, as represented in the edi- 



100 
tor, want to read. Or one may write 
with his mind on those readers of the 
magazine whom he knows personally. The 
essential point is that the writer of 
effective stories must cease to think of 
himself when he begins to write and turn 
his mental vision steadily upoft likes 
or needs of his possible readers, select- 
ing some definite reader in particular 
if need be. At any rate, he must not 
write vaguely for people he does not 
know. If he pleases those he does know, 
he may also please many he does not 
know. The best he can do is to take the 
audience he thoroughly understands, 
thought it be an audience of one, and 
write for that audience something that 
will be of value, in the way of amusement 
or information or in spiral- ion * 

The course of success in literary art 
is often like this, we will say in the 
case of a woman t 1. She has an idea and 
she writes it out Just as she thinks it, 
fancying it may please a certain friend 
of hers she has in mind. "J ^tuition guides 
her, and guides her well, in the form she 
gives her idea, and the result is an 
unusually good story, though perhaps 
crudeljr expressed. 2. The success of that 
story rouses her ambition and she looks 
about consciously to see what she can do 
in the literary field. But self -conscious- 
ness has spoiled her intuition. She wants 
to do something without knowing what she 
wants to do, or for vtiat purpose she 



101 

should do it. The result is abortive 
efforts* 3. Finally some one sets her 
a task, or she is intelligent enough *o 
set it for herself. She may think of 
somet fring she knows ought to be sail to 
certain people, and she goes about saying 
it, As soon as she does that she* is be- 
ginning +o accomplish something of real 
value, and the rest of her life is spent 
in learning Jiow to do that thing in the 
fcsst way and in doing it. 

Story writing has for its object to /S 
present to somebody some principle of 
life. We do not mean a moral principle 
nor an intellectual principle, but some 
1 aw on whi ch 1 i f e is co n st r uc t ed , or 
something about life that can be applied 
practically to tie heart or mind or soul 
of the reader, ^eing an effective <t ory 
writer is presenting some conception of 
life so that somebody else can understand 
it and use it. This is the whole secret 
of dramatic c on st r u c t ao n , sett ing th e 
mind on + he end to be accomplished and 
then using ever' available means to 
accomplish it. If the young writer 
can once .got this clearly in mind he 
will haye little difficulty in selecting 
t h e fa ct s h e sho ul i p ut i nt o a st o r y 
and those he should leave out, and in 
shaping up those he does use so that his 
finished s + . ory will be the best possible 
vehicle for his idea. Just how to do 
this he must learn for himself, but once 
on the rifjit road his common sense will 
be a sufficient guide to success. 



102 
VI, 

A Story Rewritten . 
Nothing is so much a matter of pure art 
which can be learned and must be learned 
if one is to have it , as the dramatic 
construction of a story. Women amateurs 
succeed more often than men in writing 
good stories because their intuitions are 
so strong they absorb unconsciously, as 
it were t the principles of construction; 
but their k rowl edge being purely intuition- 
al they are liable at any time to failure. 
But if there is any one thing in the art. 
of short story writing that can be taught 
it is this. Nothing will require harder 
study than dramatic construction, but 
once mastered nothing will help the young 
writer more. 

The following story was written by a 
clever newspaper man. It possesses every 
quality to make it a charming and beauti- 
ful story except dramatic construction* 
The writer fails wholly from lack of 
knowledge of the art he would practice. 
Yet there are very evident marks of the 
effort he has made to remedy this deficien- 
The facts are almost exactly as he 
states them, and came under his observa- 
tion in the pursuit of his profession 
of reporter. This is the paragraph he 
made of the actual incident for one of 
the New York dailies" 



103 

A kittle Girl S aved Him From Sin g Sing . 
William Mclntyre will bless a certain 
little girl friend he has to the day of 
his death,, for she probably saved him a 
good term at Sing Sing. On November 26 
last the jewel ery store of T, Con ant, 
1721 Third avenue, was broken into anc 
Wm. Mclntyre was arrested near the spot 
with some of the Jewelry in his possession. 
Today the police department withdrew its 
charges against him in spite of the damn- 
ing evidence, and he was released* It 
seems that little Mamie Edwards living 
just across the street at 1722 was look- 
ing out of her window rather late and saw 
another man perform the robbery, pushing 
over Mclntyre, who was drunk, and doubtless 
leaving some of the jewelry with him. It 
is said that Mamie made her way all 
alone to Headquarters and told her story 
to the Superintendent himself in such a 
way that after an investigation Mclntyre 
has been released, Mamie is only six 
years old.*' 

He then realized what material there was 
in it for a charming short story, and 
proceeded to write it out as follows, 
with a view to having it printed under 
the heai tsf fiction in some weekly or 
Sunday paper: 

The Bobbin * Man. 

"Is Mr. Byrnes at home?" 

The young man's eyes rested on a little 
fiigure that had stood for some minutes 
near him, unnoticed* Such figures were 



104 
not often seen in Mulberry street, on the 
steps of the big marble building which is 
the home of the central Departn^nt of the 
Metropolitan police. 

A little girl, perhaps six years old, 
clad in a dark red merino frock and ■ gray 
coat! Beneath the white frill of her 
bonnet hung bright curls of hair, and 
from +he prettiest little face in the 
world two large brown eyes looked straight 
at the young man, who stared at her 
curiously but not unkindly* Surprise had 
drawn his hands from his pockets* He had 
lost some of the confident air that 
belongs to men in the newspaper business, 
when he found voice to reply uncertainly* 
"I do n't know. If you really want him 
you might come in and see." 

•I guess I will* I Vye been ever so far 
I b'lieve I l m lost, too . n 

The small voice faltered and the brown 
eyes looked anxious. 

"I hope not," sail the young man cheer- 
fully and holding his hand out. "Come 
along and we '11 find out." 

Hand in hand the two went up stairs. 

The policeman who stood in the hall 
looked curiously at the child as he 
opened the door. Then he nodded to her . 
companion. 

•Lost?" he interrogated. 

"She ' s going to see the Superintendent, 
answered the man. 

Sergeant Hurleby, a big, clumsy man, 
with a great grisly beard, leaned oyer his 



105 
desk writing figures in little squares 
on a sheet of paper headed "Lost Children*, 
when the couple entered the Bureau of 
Information. 

"Here * s a case for you, Sergeant t * 
said the young man leading the child up 
to him. 

Sergeant Hurleby looked up at the 
speaker, then down at the little girl. 
Then he put down his pen. 

"My! M he exclaimed, "vtfiat a pretty 
little lady! What eyes! What nice eyes! 
So you 're lost are you?* 

"0 no, sir! I *ye come to see Mr. 
Byrnes. Are you Mr. Byrnes? ,f 

Sergeant Hurleby took the child on his 
knee . 

"What might your name be, little one?" 
he asked kindly. 

"Madge Kendrick. I *m just seven, and 
I 've been looking for Mr. Byrnes all 
day . « 

"All day, have you? And what do you 
war* with him?" 

Madge looked around at the two men in 
blue coats who had gotten up from their 
desks and were standing near the Sergeant. 
She tugged nervously at a bright button 
on her questioner's coat. Then she said 
anxiously t 

"It * s about the rob'ry." 

The two men in blue coats laughed. The 
young man who had escorted her looked 
interested. Sergeant Hurleby took one 



106 
little pink hand in his* 

"The robbery? Well, well! what a small 
sized detectiveX" 

"Mr. Byrnes is home, is n't he?" insist- 
ed Madge somewhat impatiently, her small 
mind evidently struggling under a load 
that she could no longer carry. 

"Yes, he is at tone. We ' 11 see what 
we can do for you. " 

With Madg© in his arms the Sergeant 
walked out of the room, across the hall, 
and into the outer office of Superinten- 
dent Byrnes. 

"There ' s a story in that for you," 
remarked one of the blue-coated men, 

"Yes," remarked the young man, "and a 
good one, 11 

The door of the Superintendent's office 
closed after the ill-assorted pair; 
closed quickly to within two inches, 
then settled into a decided, almost im- 
perceptible motion until the latch sprang 
with a snap* 

•Superintendent at leisure? 11 asked 
Sergeant Hurleby. 

"Yes," answered a pleasant-faced gen- 
tleman, who was examining a map on the 
wall behind 1a railing. "Go in, Sergeant: 1 

Another man, in a room to the right, 
fenced o f f by a hi gi railing of iron fret« 
work, looked into the outer office and 
seeing Madge remarked, "What a pretty 
child! " 

"Detective child!" said Sergeant Hurleby 



107 
smiling and passing through a swinging 
gate at the end of the room. "This is 
Mr. Byrnes, Madge. tt 

Madge struggled from his arms to the 
floor, and ran lightly to the big desk 
behind which a man with a partially bald 
head and drooping mustache sat reading a 
paper. 

"Oh! Are you Mr. Byrnes?" she exclaimed 
with a gasp of satisfaction, putting both 
hands on his arm. 

Nothing can startle the Superintendent 
of the New York police. He merely raised 
his eyes inquiringly to the Sergeant. 

*A little visitor to see you, Super- 
intendent , tf explained the latter, making 
a hal f salute. 

"Well , little one," said the Superin- 
tendent in hearty tones, throwing down 
his paper, 

"Oh, I f m so glad to find you at last! 
I 've walked so far and I 'm so tired! 
Mamna do n't know I 'm here. I f ve been 
at grandma's, and I 've Just cornP to 
tell you about the rob'ry. Mamma do n't 
know anything about it, nor Willie, nor 
Gracie, nor any of them. Rut you won't 
hurt him, will you?* 

Madge looked unflinchingly into the 
keen eyes before which guilty souls 
trembled and gave up their secrets. 

"No," answered the Superintendent, 
softening his usually commanding voice, 
"wo do not hurt any one here. Tell me 
all about it, Sergeant, a chair for the 



108 

lady. Thank you, Now, begin at the 
be fanning* " 

"My name # s Madge Kendrick, ■ 

"Is it? Well, Miss Kendrick, Just sit 
here close to trie and tell me what it is 
all about.* 

"Mr* Byrnes, " Madge began solemnly, M I 
saw the rob'ry did*" 

"Yes?" 

The Superintendent looked very mild 
indeed, now. as he stroked Madge's curls 
gently, as if to encourage her, 

"Yes* Our house is right across the 
street. I always like to get out of bed 
and look at the stars. They 're very 
bright on our street. And marmia scolds 
me. So Gracie What I love, she slept 
with me. Then I said I would be good, 
and Oracie did n*t sleep with me any 
more. Night afore last the moon came in 
the window; it was a lovely big moon and 
I wanted to see it so much that I got up 
to take just one peep . " 

Madge lowered her voice mysteriously, 
but there was no tremor of fear in it. 

"And so," echoed the Superintendent, 
•you go J up to look at the moon?" 

"Oh, it was x> bright! I could see the 
man in it. And there was another man in 
the street, right in front of the -jeweler 
mm* store. He looked so funny. He 
bobbed from one side to the other, and 
he could n't stand up straight at all. 
When he went to walk he bobbed worse than 
ever. The man in the moon laughed. I saw 



109 

him. * 

"Drunk!* 1 murmurred Sergeant Hurleby, 
who stood leaning against the desk. 

"60 on, Madge," said the Superintendent 
gently, 

"Well, a man cane along and sail some- 
thing to him; then he pushed the bobbin 1 
man and he fell in front of the jeweler 
winder. Then the other man ran away ever 
so fast, and a policeman came and took 
the bobbin* man." 

Madge's voice assured her hearers that 
the climax of her tale had bei?n reached. 
The Superintendent slipped his hand into a 
pigeon hole in his desk and took out a 
folded paper. On ± J was written in a 
neat roun3 hand, "Attempted burglary." 
Then in another writing, "William Mclntyre, 
26 — breaking into the jewfcl ry store of 
T. Con ant, 1721 Fifth Avenue, November 26, 
1892. tt 

"I climbed into bed quick," continued 
Madge after a pause during which she 
seemed to enjoy the inportance of her 
recital. "In the morning when Gracie 
took me to breakfast, mamma and all of 
them was talking about the rob'ry. But 
I was afraid to say anything 'cause I 
told, mamma I would be good and not get 
out of be d* " 

The Superintendent looked at Sergeant 
Hurleby. 

"And so , Madge, you came all the way 
to toll me?" 

"Oh, yes, and I *ve had a hard time to 
find you, and once I was almost runned 



110 
over* But, Mr, Byrnes, you have n't 
hung the bobbin 1 man, have you?" 

"No, we have not hung him. 1 ' 

Madge clapped her hands joyfully. "I'm 
so glad." Then she looked at the big 
beard of the Sergeant and grew serious, 
n ty papa has a beard like that, I 'm 
afraid he may scold me when I get back, 
I must go now. It ' s a long way* " 

Superintendent Byrnes leaded over and 
kissed ^adffe as she slippe-i her arms abofct 
his neck, 
, "We 'H see you home, little lady,* 
said he warmly, "Sergeant? a 

"Yes, Superintendent, " 

"Let an officer take Madge safely home 
am explain the matter to her parents.* 

"Yes, Superintendent. " 

"Goodbye, Mr. Byrnes," called the child, 
as the Sergeant led her to the door, 

"Goodbye, Madge," he answered- 

Left alone he bent over his desk and 
wrote rapidly a few words. Then he 
& P^ejssed^half a do^en ivory buttons. The 
^rt^ainT ei?ho of a bell sounded through the 
oPadded 'doors, and a stout man appeared. 

"To Sergeant Bell," ordered the Super- 
intendent. The man took the paper and 
closed the door behind him. That after- 
noon William Mclntyre was released. 

Superintendent Eyrnes leaned his head 
on his hands, in an attitude of deep 
thou ght ♦ His eyes v/andered to a picture 
on the wall in rvhi ch a policeman was 
defending a kneeling woman from a mob. 
It embodied Lav; and Disorder. His eyes 



Ill 

took in the details of the picture, for 
he noticed that the woman's hair was 
held up by a bright ribbon. But he wa s 
not thinking of it. 

Then he turned to the unfinished news- 
paper article. 



Let us now reconstruct this story in 
accordance with the principles that have 
been laid down in the preceding pages* 
In the story as written a love we have 
our material thoroughly in hand and the 
process of building up the story may be 
omitted here, and we will consider the 
changes that are to be made as they 
logically fbllow one another rather than 
in the natural sequence. 

First, the title: 'The title should 
indicate the motive or meaning of the 
story. •The Bobbin' Man" is merely fan- 
ciful.' The story was about the little 
girl and not about the drunken man at 
all. The whole incident turns on the 
courage of Madge in coming to Headquar- 
ters to release from injustice the man 
dhe had seen, anri this is made more in- 
teresting by the fact of her intelligence 
in understanding the situation and what 
was to be done. One might choose as a 
title "Her Courage*, but this w>uld be 
imperfect because it gives no hint of her 



«. * • 



113 

intelligence in under standing the situa- 
tion and whs* was to be done. A title 
must be sufficiently comprehensive, even 
if it is vague. "A Child" would serve 
very well, implying simply that the 
renmrkable thing in the story was that 
the incident was effected by a mere child 
though it was well worthy of an older 
person. It intensifies this idea to 
substitute for the very vague "A Child" 
"A Little Child". This title is not 

ideal, but a perfect title is a matter 
of good fortune and patient search, and 
this will show the process of the search, 
Which the student is at liberty* carry 
farther if he wishes. 

Perhaps some one may object that "The 
Bobbin 1 Man" had as rmch to do with the 
story as Maupassant's "Necklace" had to 
do with his story of that name. It will 
be observed, however, that the necklace, 
its quality, its essential characteristic 

of existence, figuratively stood for 
the vanity in Mme. Loisel which was the 
underlying motive of the story Maupassant 
wrote. "The Necklace'* translated out of 
the figure of speech into plain English 
means "Her Vanity \ "The Bobbin 1 Man" 
was merely &n accident, and 6 thousand 
other men or events might have brought 
out the same qualities in the child. A 
good title for the simple narrative of 
events which is printed above would be 
"Madge * s Adve nt ure ,f . Put the t itl e 
"A Little Child" suggests the moral 
principle of the story by reminding the 



113 
readier of the Bible quotation, "And a 
little child shall lead them*" 

Almost every story of incident needs a 
setting. Only pure character studies 
plunge at once into the main theme. The 
introductory setting 'Which we will give 
this story is chosen expressly to bring 
out the interior significance of the story 
along with a perfect contrast to the 
scene that is about to be described. The 
intention is to set up as strong a situa- 
tion as possible which must be over-bal- 
anced in the mind of the reader by the 
innocence and nobility of the child. 

We will now present the story in its 
new form, simply prefacing it with the 
remark that the smallest possible number 
of changes has been made, and these all 
lie in the direction of focusing the 
interest of the story on a single point 
instead of scattering it vaguely about* 
The point chosen, as indicated in the 
title, is not the only point from vfaich 
the story might be viewed. Each writer 
will choose a different point. That does 
not matter. But whatever the point chosen, 
toward that and that alone must look the 
beginning, the ending, and the develop- 
ment. It must not, like the original 
story, begin with the child, proceed with 
the reporter and police sergeants, and 
end with the Suporint endent. . It must 
begin with the child and end with the 
child, and stick closely to the child 
all the way through. 



114 

A Little Child 

It was two o'clock in the morning at tho 
police headquarters of the Daily Graphic . 
and the last little story of a fire had 
fpne in by telephone to the night editor. 
The four men who constituted the tt force* 
at this particular centre of public infor- 
mation were sitting about the dingy room 
with cigars in their mouths and glasses 
at their hands, their feet comfortably 
reposing on tables, piles of books, or 
other like suitable supports. Work had 
been light and they had got to talking, 
and now were loth to leave off. 

"After all the crime and misery and 
wretchedness and dishonesty and brutal 
lack of unselfishness which I *ve seen 
in wandering about this city of New 
York," said one man between the puffs of 
his cigar, "I must say my belief in the 
innate goodness of the human heart is a 
pretty slim thing. I could much more 
easily believe in the total depravity of 
the human race, the way those old Puritans 
did." 

tt I do n't know that I am quite as bad 
as that/ 1 remarked Phillips, H but I am 
convinced that nobody, I do n't care who 
he is, even a saint on earth, does any- 
thing without in some way seeing that 
good will come to himself for it in the 
end. He may deceive himself, but after 
all he does his philanthropic deeds 
with the ultimate view that they will 
increase his chances of getting into 



115 

heaven some day, even if he has no 
nearer motive than that. * 

The three other men listened patiently 
to this philosophy, and it was plain that 
all agreed more or less with Phillips 
that the human heart has few if any 
natural and spontaneous impulses of 
unselfishness. But after a pause Johnson, 
familiarly called "Dutchy", who had not 
spoken before, said with slow emphasis, — 

tt I suppose you f re about right* Any 
way 1 *m not saying you *re not, only 1 
have just been thinking of a little thing 
1 saw the other day. I made a j^ jrtrtfrftF 
paragraph about it, Imt I thought I *d 
ifow0k& something rore y *$7 it some day, it 
was so pretty* There are exceptions to 
all rules, you know, and I think this is 
an exception to t he rule that all human 
beings are constantly on the look out for 
No. 1 and nobody else." 

*You f re thinking of that little girl?" 
suggested Byles. *I remember. Give us 
the story. It was a mighty pretty thing 
and right on this point, I should say." 

The two others were anxious to hear, so 
^Dutchy" told the following story: * 

^"Abont four o'clock in the afternoon I 
was going across to Headquarters on some 
errand or other, I forget what. I was 
in a hurry to get off to dinner early and 
so was speeding myself a little more than 
usual, perhaps. I remember I went up the 
marble steps about three at a time and 
was making a rush for the door without 



116 

seeing what I was doing, when I stum- 
bled over a little bunch of something 
which on recovery I found to be a little 
girl , say six years old* She had on a 
gray coat and a red merino frock, and a 
little white frilled bonnet that partly 
covered a beautiful curly head of bright 
golden brown hair, I was so astonished 
to find her under my feet that I jus* 
stood and looked at her, and 1 recall 
now perfectly her round brown eyes and 
sweet innocent face. If she *d been a 
few years older I should have been 'dead 
struck on her 1 without a doubt, 

"Said 1, 'What do you want here. I 
did n't hurt you, did I?' 

^>h f no, you did n't hurt me,' she said, 
'only just at first I did n't know who 
you were. I want to see Mr. Byrnes. Can 
you tell me where he is? 1 

*I forgot all atout what I was after, 
if I recollect right, and that I was 
intending to go to dinner extra early 
to meet an appointment in the evening. I 
sa id , — • 

"'What do you want- with Mr. Byrnes? 
Can't you tell me just as well?' 

•She did n't answer that question, but 
she said she guessed she was lost, and 
that- she had come a long ways and had 
been walking all day, and that she watited 
very particularly to see Mr, Byrnes. I 
noticed that her feet were loaded with 
dust, and so was her dress. She looked 
pretty tired out, and it was plain she 



117 

had had a long tramp of it, and a hot 
one, too. One could see in her eyes 
that she was a plucky little piece, 

"I took her hand and told her to cane 
along with me, and we went up stairs. 
Old Blucher was standing in the hall and 
asked if I 'd picked up a stray. I told 
him she wanted to see the Superintendent, 
and + ook her in to Hurleby as a lost chill. 
"he Sergeant was sitting at his desk 
writing, but when he saw her he just 
laid down his pen and said, 

•My! what a pretty little lady! What 
nice eyes! So you 're lost, are you?" he 
asked hor . 

"'Oh, no, sir; I 've come to see Mr* 
Byrnes, * she said as quietly as you 
please. 'Are you Mr. Byrnes ? ' 

•Old Hurleby had to haul out and take 
her up in his lap. He asked her what her 
'name was , an d she said , 

•My name's Madge Kendrick. I '11 be 
seven tomorrow, and I 've been looking 
for Mr. s-yrnes all day. 11 

•'All day? 1 said Hurleby. 'And iftiat 
do you want with Mr. Byrnes? 1 

•One or two officers had come up, and 
when she saw us all looking at her she 
began to look a little shy, and she 
turned round to the Sergeant and pulled 
nervously at the brass buttons on his 
coat. After a while she said in an em- 
barrassed tone, — 

••It 's about the rob'ry, ' 

■'The robbery?' said Hurleby. 'Well, 
well ! what a small sized detective we 



118 
have! 1 

"At that she looked somewhat puzzled; 
but she was full of her errand and not to 
be diverted, for the next moment she 
drew back her head a little and said 
with as much dignity as you can imagine ,- 

1,1 Mr. Byrnes is home, is n't he? 1 

"The men laughed, and I could n't help 
laughing, too , though you can imagine I 
preferred to have her tell her story , if 
she had one, to Byrnes himself rather 
than just then. So I said to Hurleby, 

■' Go over and find out if Byrnes won't 
see her. f 

"'Oh, that '11 be all right," said he. 
So we all went over to the Superintendent' 
office, where Byrnes was just getting 
ready to go home. Hurleby had carried 
her over in his arms, but when she got 
there and saw Byrnes she seemed to know 
at once who he was, and insisted $n 
getting down and walking up to him in 
proper fashion. She went straight 
around his big desk and Tm3*^^fcrs#3t- 
%Sfiftt-laid her little hand upon his arm 
without saying a word at first. 

"'Well, little one! 1 said Byrnes, being 
in an extra good mood. 'What can I do 
for you?' 

"'Are you Mr. Fyrnes?' she asked* 

H, Yes, I 'm Mr. Byrnes,' he answered. 

H, I 'm so $ad to find you, 1 she said 
in a tone of relief. 'I 've walked ever 
so far, and 1 *m tired* Mamrca doe* n't 
kiDw I 'm here. I 've been at grandma's, 



119 

and 1 've come to tell you about the 
rob'ry. Mantna does n't knpw- an/thing 
about it, nor Willie, nor Gracie, nor 
any of them. But you won't hurt him, 
will you?' 

"She looked at him sharply, I can tell 
you, as if she would look his old grey 
eyes straight through. He winked a 
little and said, 

%e do n't hurt anybody here. But who 
is he?' 

"• 'Why, the man,' she said. '1 saw the 
rob'ry did myself. ' 

"The Superintendent began to look at 
her softly, and then took her up in his 
arms. I have an idea he came about as 
near falling in love with her as 1 did. 
His eyes with the heavy brows and the 
seamed old face and the big hands made 
a fine contrast with her pretty little 
figure, and Fyrnes seemed to appreciate 
it, too. He looked at her as if he were 
her own father, and proud of it into the 
bargain, and then he made her. tell her 
littl e story. 

"•You see,' said she, 'our house is 
right on the street. I always like to 
get out of bed and look at the stars. 
They 're very bright on our street. Mam- 
ma scolds me for it, so Oracie she used 
to sleep with me. Then I said 1 ' d be 
good, and Gracie did n't sleep with me 
any more. Night b'fore last the moon 
came in the window; it was a lovely big 
moon, and I wanted to see it so much I got 



13) 

up just to take one little look. 1 

,: She lowered her voice mysteriously, 
but evidently she had no fear. The 
Superintendent encouraged her a little 
and she went on confidently, — 

M, It was so bright I could see the man 
in it. And there was another man in the 
street, right in front of the jeweler 
store. He looked so funny. He bobbed' 
from one side to the other, and he could 
n't stand up straight at all. When he 
went to walk he bobbed worse than ever. 1 
"'Drunk! 1 commented the Sergeant, who 
stood leaning against the desk. 

M, Go on, Madge, 1 said Pyrnes gently, 
"'Wen, 1 said she, * a man came along 
and said something to him; then he pushed 
the bobbin* man and he fell in front of 
the jeweler windo 1 . Then the other man 
ran away , ever so test > and a policeman 
came and took the bobbin 1 man. ' * 

Outchy paused for a moment and looked 
about at the cynical faces of his audi- 
tors. Then he went on in a lower tone: 

,f I suppose you are asking yourselves, 
Who the deuce put the little thing up to 
this trick? I asked the same* question. 
Byrnes looked at me as if he c take my 
head off for a minute, and the Sergeant 
shuffled around a little, while I quietly 
retired. Pyrnes looked do un at the 
little thing on his knee and asked, Just 
as if it were the most natural question 
in the world, why she had come to tell 
him about it. She said the nurse told 



her that they would hang that man fox^ 2 ^ a 
robbing, that that was the way they did 



with such men. Everybody was talking ' iy 
about the robbery, £* 

"'I just knew it was the wrong man ' 

they was go in 1 to hang^&nd he did .Jl't^ 
do it at all, and it made me awfully T^ 
sorry, so sorry I cried* 1 

"The tears came into her eyes again 
as she recalled the horror of the wrong 
man being hung for the robbery, and 
Byrnes and the others seemed to sympa- 
thize with her. 

"She went on to say that she had told 
her nurse about it, though she did n't 
dare to tell her father or mother far 
fearing of being punished. Put the nurse 
was as bad as they and shut her up in 
the nursery all the next day for getting 
up in the night. It gave her a chance to 
think, however* She remembered that 
their coachman had gone to see Mr. Pyrnes 
when his son Thomas had been taken away 
by a policeman, and Mr. Byrnes had let 
Thomas come home again. She thought if 
she went to see Mr. Byrnes perhaps he 
would save the bobbin' man from being 
hung, only she was afraid he 'i be hung 
before she got there if the nurse did n't 
lot her out of the nursery pretty soon. 

"The next day she got permission to go 
over to grandma's, and gran Una had been 
easily persuaded to lot her go out on 
the street to play a little while. As 
soon as she was free she set out to find 
Byrnes. She thou$it she would ask a 
policeman where he was, for she did n't 



L 



121 

know. She thought the policemen would 
know where Mr. Byrnes lived, because 
they lived at the same place. But she 
had a pretty hard time making tfrsm under- 
stand, finally she was put on a horse 
car and the conductor would n't let her 
get off for a long, long time. %en she 
did get. off she had to walk and walk and 
walk, and she asked a lot of policemen 
where Mr. Fyrnes lived, and some of 
them did n't know at all. Put at last 
she had got there, but she was so tired. 

She began to look a little sleepy, but 
she was bound to know if the man would be 
sent homo and not hung. 

1,1 You need n't worry any rrore about it 
at all, little one,' said Byrnes in a 
low tone. f We do n't hang men for 
robbery, but if it had n't been iter your 
pluck he might have been shut up in 
prison for a long, long time. 1 

* f But he wnH be shut up now? 1 she 
asked drowsily. ' 1 should n't like it a 
bit to be shut up for a long, long time. ' 

,f, No, my dear, you ' ve saved that man 
a five years' term,* sail Byrnes, looking 
steadily at her tired little form. She 
nestled up in bis arms and her hand 
grasped his coat lappel. I said to 
myself, 'Poor thing, she 's tired all 
out, and no wonder! 1 Byrnes moved a 
trifle uneasily as if she were getting 
heavy in his arms, and tried to put her 
down* Put it was useless* she was sound 
asleep. 11 



122 

As "Dutch/ fini died, one of the others 
ask ed , 

"And what do you suppose the motives 
of that child were? Did n't she simply 
get an idea into her head she could n't 
get out, which she had to go and tell? 
Do you call that unself ishness?" 

"If a few more people got ideas of 
the same general sort into their heads 
that they could n't get out, I should n't 
complain of this world myself," answered 
"Dutchy" sulkily as he drew on his great 
coat and hurried away into the rainy 
night. 



The original story begins, "Is Mr. Pyrnes 
at home?" Such a phrase is odd, some- 
thing calculated to attract passing 
attention. It is the newspaper report 
method of beginning, and is excellent for 
those who merefaskim, as newspaper readers 
do. But when one takes up a short story 
he usually intends to read it all through. 
The first thing the reader of a short 
st ory wants to know is the location of 
the scene, the time, and the characters 
who are to figure. The first object in 
a story is to fix the scene in the mind 
of the reader as f irml y as possible, and 
to do this the writer should begin with 
the most, general details, and narrow 
steadily, though rapidly, down to the 
particular ones. This is the reason for 



123 

our putting the little description of 
the general surroundings in the intro- 
ductory part, along with a statement of 
the idea that is intended to be brought 
out by the story. The idea and the inci- 
dent should go side by side at equal 
rates* 

In the opening of the story itself 
some changes will be noticed at the very 
outset. These first changes are calcu- 
lated for the most part to make the child 
more attractive than she was in the 
original realistic description, in order 
that the reader may have his attention 
fixed the more securely on the character 
of the little girl. The addition of the 
fact that the young man forgot his errand 
and his desire to get away early to 
dinner when he saw the child, is exactly 
in this direction. 

The conversation is changed slightly 
in the rewritten story for the purpose of 
making it more flexible. Conversation 
should not be an imitation of peculiari- 
ties observed in real life, but should 
be that which in the story has the best 
appearance of being easy and natural. 

The fact that she looked tired and dusty 
is not mentioned in the original story. 
This observation shows ttore clearly then 
her own assertions how great an effort 
she made to reach the Superintendent. Ii 
the original she says she nearly #>t run 
over, but this is omitted because she is 
more full of her errand than of her o*n 



124 
perils. Her difficulties in reaching 
the Superintendent are therefore delayed 
until after she has told her story of 
the man she came to save. 

In the succeeding paragraphs the 
narrative is followed along almost 
exactly in the order of eve rrt s and as 
original^ described. T he changes that are 
made are^ chiefly to simplify the scene 
and to bring out the contrast between the 
child and the men, which is not clearly 
brought out in the first story, though 
it is a perfectly legitimate device to 
^heighten the interest of the tale. Some 
(j^of the description of the actual arrange- 
^ment of things at Police Headquarters 



g» in New York, because few of the readers 
ft of the story will be likely to have any 
O personal acquaintance with them, or any 
^wi$h to have, while the stating of them 
w in a realistic way detracts from the inter- 
est in the child, which is of greater im- 
portance to the effectiveness of the 
story » For instance, the paragraph at 
the end of the original story describing 
the office of Byrnes, while interesting 
as a matter of historical fact, has 
nothing whatever to do with the story 
of the little gixl # indeed draws the 
interest away fi'om that , and must accord- 
ingly be sacrificed wholly. 

It will be noticed that the story 
though placed in the mouth of a newspaper 
reporter is told almost as if it were 
narrated by the author himself. There 



125 
are a few reminders in the use of language 
where the teller is viewed as an actor 
in the story, especially when he begins 
his narrative and when he hesitates and 
looks at his cynical auditors in the 
middle. But as a rule a character who 
is represented as telling a story should 
be a purely transparent medium* To try 
to bring out his character except in the 
introduction or conclusion is to detract 
from the real interest of the story that 
he tells. There can be but one coimand- 
ing interest in a 3iort story. The line 
of development of that interest must be 
perfectly straight, never wavering be- 
cause of some interfering interest, how- 
ever slight, 

In the rewritten story, at the point 
when the little thing has told her story 
about the drunken man, the reporter is 
made to question her motive, or his 
auditors do for him. This is an excuse 
for bringing out more distinctly than 
coul d otherwise be done the irrpression 
of sincerity and singleness of purpose 
which the child had produced on the 
Superintendent and the others. 

The question of motive is a vital one 
in a story, because every act must be 
shown to have been produced by a suffi- 
cient motive, or it Jars* No sane person 
does anything in life without a motive, 
that is, some inner force that compels 
him. And the act and its motive are al- 
ways exactly proportioned to each other. 



126 

In a story the proportion between motive 
and act must be most accurately maintain- 
ed or the reader loses confidence. This 
question of motive is the question of 
knowledge of human nature. Without the 
knowledge the writer of a story, however 
skilfu? as a literary artist, must surely 
fail. Art is only the best way of using 
the fund ftf this knowledge of life which 
the author possesses. The necessity for 
Ms information being accurate and wide 
and deep is indicated in the introduction 
to this volume, where Zola ple&aa for 
a scientific knowledge of human nature as 
a basis for art* In this story the whole 
interest depends on the study of motive. 
First, the story is made to turn on the 
inquiry whether men are moved by selfish 
or unselfish motives in all cases, The 
writer must understand exactly how they 
are moved by motive, and he must never 
make his characters do anything without 
Just, the right motive. All through the 
rewritten story an effort is made to 
nv?.ke the motive of the child clear. The 
test of the success of this balancing 
of motive is the unbiassed impression 
of the ordinary reader. If he is satis- 
fied, the story is probably accurate in 
its knowledge of motive and action. If 
the ordinary reader is vaguely troubled 
in spite of the fact that the story seems 
interesting and artistic to him, the au- 
thor may conclude that unconsciously 
the reader has felt a discrepancy between 



127 

action and motive at some point. The 
reader does not of course analyze in 
this way, but the author should under- 
stand the reader's vague unrest on this 
principle of motive. 

The student may ask why the story 
changes near the end of the little girl's 
narrative from the conversational style 
to the plain narrative. The reason is 
very simple, but one very essential to 
understand. At this point the reader 
will begin to grow tired* Too much of 
any one thing, whatever it may be, tires, 
tfp to this point there has been a great. 
deal of conversation. The reader will 
tire of it, and unless he is refreshed 
by some change he will lose interest in 
the story* The narrative form is both 
simpler and easier to follow, and more 
condensed, Young writers who use the 
conversational methpd well, often do not 
know when to stop and take up the narrative 
style. These two styles are almost 
equally inportant and necessary, and 
must be balanced against each other with 
skill. The narrative is perhaps the 
most difficult to handle well because it 
is the simplest. The balancing of these 
two styles much resembles the use of 
tragedy and comedy in a play* A little 
seriousness must be introduced into a 
comedy lest it become too light, and a 
little comedy must relieve the strain of 
tragedy. Dialogue and narrative are 
used with each other for a similar purpose. 



: 



" 



128 
At the close of the story the child 
is made to fall asleep in the arms of the 
Superintendent as a fitting climax to 
the effort she has made. It shows as 
nothing else could do how difficult her 
undertaking was, and consequently how 
genuine her motive. Had it been less 
real she would have yielded to h<2* 
physical weariness long before and 
become lost or gone home. 

The short extra conclusion is made 
necessary by the opening scene, and 
helps set off the story by introducing a 
ioubt of the child's motive,-- a line of 
dark to bring out the light. 

Of course it is not known what actually 
took place in the original incident. In 
building up the story two methods may be 
followed. One is the method of the story 
as first presented, namely to describe 
the incident as nearly as it probably 
happened as possible, making it a page 
from unwritten history, using such art as 
historians are allowed, such as Macaulay 
uses, for instance. The method followed 
in the rewritten form of the story is to 
be true to the principle and motive first 
of all, and to modify the probable actual 
facts to some extent in such a way as to 
make more vivid to the reader the vital 
principles of human nature. The one is 
an effort to reproduce the w>rld as it is; 
the other attenpts to create a little world 
on the principles of the real world, but 
complete in itself. 



I i 



129 
VII. 

Contrast . 

In story writing contrast is far more 
than a fijgure of speech* it is an es- 
sential element in making the strength 
of any story. A story without contrast 
may have all the elements of construction, 
style, and originality of idea, but it 
will be weak, narrow, limp. The truth i$, 
contrast is the measure of the breadth 
of one's observation. We often think of 
it as a figure of speech, a method of 
language which we use for effect. A 
better view of it is as a measure of 
breadth. You have a dark, wicked man on 
one side, and a fair, sunny, sweet woman 
on the other. These are two extremes, a 
contrast, and they include all between. 
If a writer understands these extremes he 
understands all between, and if in his 
story he sets up onfc type against another 
he in a way marks those extremes out as 
the boundaries of his intellectual field, 
and he claims all within them. If the 
contrast is great, he claims a great 
field, if feeble, then he has only a 
narrow f ield* 

Contrast and one's power of mastering 
it indicate one's breadth of thought and 
especially the breadth of one's thinking 
in a particular story. Every writer 
should strive for the greatest possible 
breadth, for the greater his breadth the 
more people there are who will be inter- 
ested in his work. Narrow minds interest 
a few people, and broad minds interest 



130 
correspondingly many. The best way to 
cultivate breadth is to cultivate the use 
of contrast in your writing. 
- But to assume a breadth which one does 
not have, to pass from one extreme to 
another without perfect mastery of all 
that lies between, results in being ridic- 
ulous. It is like trying to extend the 
range of the voice too far. One desires 
a voice with the greatest possible range; 
but if in forcing the voice up one breaks 
into a falsetto, the effect is disastrous. 
So in seeking range of character expression 
one must be very careful not to break 
into a falsetto, vvhile straining the true 
voice to its utmost in order to extend 
its range. 

Let us now pass from the general con- 
trast of characters and situations of the 
most general kint to contrasts of a 
more particular sort. Let us consider the 
use of language first* Light conversation 
must not lust too long or it becomes 
ruOnotonous, as we al 1 know. But if the 
writer can pass sometimes rapidly from 
light conversation to serious narrative, 
both the light dialogue and the serious 
seem the more expressive for the contrast. 
The only thing to be considered is, Can 
you do it with perfect ease and grace ? 
If you cannot, better to let it alone. 
Likewise the long sentence may be used 
in one paragraph, and a fine contrast 
shown by using very short sentences in 
the next. 



131 

But let us distinguish between variety 
and contrast. The writer may pass from 
long sentences to short ones when the 
reader has tired of long ones, and vice 
versa, he may pass from a tragic charac- 
ter to a comic one in order to rest the 
mind of the reader. In this there will 
be no very decided contrast. But when 
the two extremes are brought close 
together, are forced together perhaps,^-- 
then we have the electric effect of 
contrast. To use contrast well requires 
great skill in the use of language, 

for contrast means passing from one ex- 

treme to a no /t her in a very short space, 
and if this passing is not done grace- 
fully, the whole effect is spoiled. 

What has been said of contrast in lan- 
guage, character, etc., may also be 
applied to contrasts in any small detail, 
incident, or even simile. Let us examine 
a few of the contrasts in Maupassant, 
for he is a great adept in the use of 
contrast. 

Let us take the opening paragraph of 
*€he Necklace" and see vfoat a marveltsww-- 
of contrast it is^ "She was one of those 
pretty and charming girls vvho are some- 
times, as if by a mistake of destiny, 
born in a family of clerks. She had no 
dowry, no expectations, no means of being 
known, understood, loved, wedded, by any 
rich and distingui shed man; ' and she had 
let herself be married to a little clerk 
in the Ministry of Public Instruction. " 



to/. 



* 152 

Notice "pretty and charming, — "family of 
clerks 11 . These two contrasted ideas 
(implied ideas, of course) are gracefully 
linked by "as if by a mistake of destiny? 
Then the author goes on to mention what 
the girl did not have in a way that 
implies that she ought to have had all 
these things. She could not be wedded to 
"any rich and distinguished man** "she 
let herself be married to a little clerk." 

The whole of the following description 
of Mme. Loisel is one mass of clever 
contrast of the things she might have 
been, wanted to be, with what she was 
and had. A little farther on, however, 
we get a different sort of contrast. 
Though poor she has a rich friend. Then 
her husband brings home an invitation at 
which he is perfectly delighted. Imme- 
diately she is shown wretched, — a strik- 
ing contrast. He is shown patient; she 
is irritated. She is selfish in wishing 
a dress and finery; he is unselfish in 
giving up his gun and the shooting. 

With the ball the author gives us a 
description of Mme. Loisel having all 
she had dreaned of having. Her hopes 
are sat isfied completel y , it appears, 
until suddenly, when she is about to go 
away, the fact of her lack of wraps 
contrasts tellingly with her previous 
attractiveness. These two little des- 
criptions, one of the success of the ball 
one of hurrying away in shame, the 
wretched cab, and all, are most forceful 



133 

contrasts, and most skilfully and nat- 
urally represented. The previous happi- 
ness is further set into contrast by 
the utter wretchedness she experiences 
upon discovering the loss of the neck- 
lace ♦ 

Then we have her new life of hard work, 
which we contrast in mind not only with 
what she had really been having, but with 
that which she had dreams d of having, 
had seemed about to realize, and had 
suddenly lost forever. 

Then at last we have the contrast, 
elaborate, strongly drawn and telling, 
between Mme. Loisel after ten years, 
with her friend, vfoo represents in flesh 
and blood what she might have been. Then 
at the end comes the short, sharp contrast 
of paste and diamonds, and the contrast 
that is suggested by the fact that this 
rich friend had used paste, rich though 
she was, and Mme. Loisel with all her 
poverty had actually bought and paid for 
diamonds. 

In using contrast one does not have to 
search for something to set up against 
something else. Every situation has a 
certain breadth, it has two sides, whether 
they are far apart or near together. 
To give the real effect of the story it 
is necessary to pass from one side to the 
other very rapidly and frequently, ft>r 
only in so ^ing can one keep the whole 
situation in mind. One must see the 
vfaole story, both sides and all in between, 



wy&inn on« a rutu hww o 



135 

134 
at the same time. The more of a story 
one sees at the same time, the more of 
life on^grasps. and the more invigorating 
is the story. The use of contrast is 
eminently a matter of acquired skill, 
and when one has becom9 skilful he uses 
contrast consciously and with the same 
effort that he makes his choice of words. 
In writing gracefully and easily, one 
must work hard on the task of finding 
suitable words and phrases. So one must 
work constantly in the effort to keep 
both sides of the story clearly before 
the mind of the reader all the time. When 
one is interested in one theme it is hard 
to pass quickly and readily to another, 
and it takes a decided effort of mind to 
do it: it is real work. It is like run- 
ning from one side of a field to the other 
with lightning rapidity, back and forth, 
back and forth. The whole field gets 
trampled down smooth ani hard, but it 
takes a vast amount of work to do it. 

Though it is necessary constantly to 
bring the two sides of the scene or the 
situation or the story together, there 
mus f never bo any flagging on account of 
weariness, there must be no forcing, no 
stumbling or awkwardness. Contrasts which 
are not vfell done are better not done at 
all. One should try constantly and ardu- 
ously, but whenever the result is not 
satisfactory the passage should be cut 
out ruthlessly, and something simpler that 
is satisfactory put in its place. The greet 
secret of success is to do one's utmost 
without ever trying to do more than lies 
within one's real powers. 



* * 



I : < 



^? 



'7 



136 
VIII. 

Motive * 

Every short story is npre or less a 
study of human motive. In a law court it 
is understood that a knowledge of the 
motive is necessary in order to establish 
a crime. This involves the conclusion 
that no human act can be rightly under- 
stood without the motive which led to it 
as well as the deed itself. In a "story 
of mystery the rrpt ive , or original 
cause, is looked for, but proves veiled. 
A Mystery story is valuable, however, in 
proportion to the investigation into the 
motive or compelling cause of the action. 
The word motive is commonly used of acts 
of human beings, but in a broader sense 
it may be used to designate the determin- 
ing cause of any action. 

The newspaper reporter commonly gives 
only a report of the facts in a giv^n 
case. Put the artistic story-teller, the 
writer of true literature, must look far 
deeper than this. He must imke a study 
of life to determine the motive of the 
things done, to find out the original 
compelling cause, or. per haps the negative 
conditions which made a certain exper- 
ience possible. Certain incidents may 
happen to a character. That character 
is affected in a certain way, and a study 
of the reasons of this comes un:*er tbP 
head of motive Just as much as for in- 
stance a study of the conditions which 
made a certain man do a certain thing to 
somebody. 



136 

The word motive is used in English in a 
much more restricted sense than we have 
indicated here, and hence the French word 
motif has come into use in this connection 
to designate that wide significance of 
tte English word when employed in the 
technical sense. The mot if of a story 
is the thought, idea, force, whatever it 
may be which makes the action possible: 
it is the compelling force behind every- 
thing. 

One of the great failings of young 
writers is that they do not seize the 
motif of a story at the start , and in- 
deed they do not bring it out at all 
except by implication. The important 
element of every story is it s mot if . and 
this must be brought but clearly in the 
opening sentences, or within a page or 
two. Time, place, and circumstances 
must be indicated in some way first, with 
a little designation of the chief charac- 
ter. All this may be accomplished in a 
single word, at most in a sentence or two. 
Then the author should take hold of the 
motif » or th*' motive which makes the man 
act, or the force which brought about the 
catastrophe, whatever it was, and this 
must be clearly explained* There can be 
no vital interest in the story until it 
is explained. There are many ways of 
explaining it, or in making it clear, 
among others the mere atmosphere of the 
language used* To illustrate, let us 
examine the motif of the stories in "Th* 
Odd Number. • 



i I JO 



137 

In Happiness the motif is sounded in 
the third paragraph, beginning "We talked 
of love." That is the motive. In A Cow - 
ard the motif of cowardice is indicated 
in the title first, and is then brought 
out clearly by the contrast in the third 
paragraph, which describes the man's 
gallant bearing and his skill as a fencer 
and pistol-shot. The motif of The Wolf 
is also found in the third paragraph, 
especially in the word 1 slaughter , * which 
implies the passions which go with 
slaughter. The Necklace is a story atput 
vanity, and this is indicated in the 
third paragraph, which begins, "She 
suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself 
born for all the delicacies and 3II the 
luxuries. ■ In A Piece of String the first 
six paragraphs are introductory descrip- 
tion, but in the seventh paragraph we 
have the peculiar actions of Maitre 
Hauchecorne when he picks up the piece of 
string, which gives a gl impse into his 
character in a way to show what element 
of his nature brought about the catastro- 
phe. In La Mert? Sauvage we have t he 
mot if indicated in the description of the 
bare ruin of the house in the fifth 
paragraph. The motif of the story Moon - 
light is found in the fifth paragraph, 
describing the Abbe's hatred of women 
and love. 

Maupassant is rather npre particular 
and exact about his motif than any other 
writer, and we know of no particular 



138 

reason why It should always come in the • 

third, fifth, or seventh paragraphs* 

it must come early in the story, however. 

8ut not only must every story have its 
nptif , its motive, but every act in 
every story must have its motive clearly 
indicated. The writer shoul d ceaselessly 
ask the question, Did this man or that 
woman have a sufficient motive for doing 
this or that deed? 

Story writing seems at first very sim- 
ple, but when the would-be author con- 
siders that in order to write good stories 
he must so thoroughly understand hurvac 
nature that he will know exactly whet 
and how great a motive is necessary for 
a certain act for a certain person under 
given circumstances, then the enormous 
requirements are seen at last. E v en the 
best of writers fail constantly in this 
matter of understanding how much motive 
or how little corresponds to a civen act, 
and they fail of the highest success 
just in proportion to that. But to suc- 
ceed at all a writer must be constantly 
striving toward perfect knowledge. 

For instance, it means nothing to give 
a description of how one man knocked 
another down unless the reason for his 
doing so is also clearly explained. To 
tell how a man met a woman on the street 
and kissed her is ridiculous unless some 
motive is given. More than this, the 
motive must be exactly proportioned to 
the act, and nicely calculated for the 
nature. A person of reserve would have 



» 'iv* 



17: 



139 

to be given a much stronger motive for 
any overt act than an unrestrained, 
impulsive person. Human nature works 
on just the same principles as physical 
nature: to drive a nail into hard wood 
requires more force than to drive it into 
soft wood, and when one attempts to 
drive a nail into a granite rock the nail 
is broken rather than being driven at all. 
The skilled carpenter in driving a nail 
calculates with great precision just 
what blows are required to drive his nail, 
and he never tries to drive a nail where 
it wonH go- The same skill and precision 
should be used by the writer when he 
tries to drive human souls' he must sup- 
ply exactly the right amount of motive* 

To determine this question of motive a 
great deal of careful thinking is required, 
and this requirement as to a great amount 
of careful thinking in regard to motive 
is the reason why so much tine is required 
for the development in the author's ©iwn t 
mind of the story which he gets first 
in the form of a plain narrative of facts. 
It i s always necessary for him to 
think out all the motives. This involves 
thinking out with great precision the 
exact nature of the characters, for 
npt ive must be perfectly proportioned to 
resistance, that is to character and also 
to circumstances. Training, education, 
atmosphere, personality, social condi- 
tions, are all elements in this matter 
of a nice adjustment; of action and reac- 



140 

tion, of motive and act, of motif and 
catastrophe • 

This knowledge of hum^n nature is 1 

something we cannot presume to~ teach ; . 2 * 
This chapter can but show where knowledge 
of human nature must cone in and form 
the- all esstential element of strength 
in a story. It is an infinite vista 
that is opened, but all writers who 
succeed will penetrate it more or less 
deeply according to their genius. 



141 
1*. 

How To Observ e Meja and Women . 

Although the study of character has no 
bearing on the art of fiction as an art, 
it is a matter of great practical impor- 
tance to the man or woman who would write 
fiction* hence we may be pardoned a word 
as to the best method of studying char- 
acter * 

In going about observing men and women 
it is indispensable that the student of 
human nature should classify, and the 
best method of classifying tbpse you see 
is by comparison with friends you know 
well. You know a fine old gentleman, a 
lovely, unselfish woman, a selfish, dis- 
agreeable woman, etc* You have an ideal 
of childhood, of intellectuality, of 
stupidity, incarnate in some one you know. 
Take that person as in a way a type, and 
place him at the head of your classifica- 
tion. Then observe how often you find 
his leading characteristic in the thous- 
ands of others you may corre in contact 
with in a year. This method of compari- 
son leads you to separate characteristics 
from individuals, so that you can think 
of tliem as entities, as real, substantial 
things, though they at first seentfd in- 
separable from the person in whom yoij Jiad 
seen them. Not until you have seen the 
same p}i#ra£teri sties in a great many 
pexisor^ $0 you come 'to know practically 
whaj a^ \Vp& is. 

In writing fiction the special and 



. V :■' ' 



- v no!] 



U- i 



srn 



142 

queer in human nature ought to be elim- 
inated; ffcr if you picture types your 
characters should be essentially like a 
great many other men and women in the 
world- When you have looked at but one 
person you cannot be sure how much is 
peculiar to him alone and how much is 
broad human nature. In order to know 
what is broadly human you must have 
observed a great many* 

But you may ask when and where can you 
best observe human nature. The answer 
is, at all times and under all circum- 
stances. Watch the faces you meet in the 
street until you come to know just what 
the fcguxflt character of a stranger is by 
your first glance at his face, figure r 
and general manner. Study the meaning 

of eyes, of voice, of gesture, «m*x$bk 

t&slEKXKHR&K as well as the meaning of the 
lines of the face. Short persons have 
certain qualities, tall persons certain 
others. Height, weight, color determine 
an almost infinite number of mental 
char act erist ics. Do not leave these 
broad and obvious things out of sight in 
observing smaller and finer shades of 
cnaracter. 

The chief mistake that the careful stu- 
dent of life makes is to become so ab- 
sorbed in the very small and fine in 
character that he forgets all about the 
broad and obvious . It is much better 
to know well the broad and obvious than 
the fine and delicate, for if one is a 



143 

shrewd observer of the larger things, 

he will be quite likely not to err in tfcd 

smaller; but the reverse is not true. 

The next step is in the study of human 
Passions, am that observation must begin 
in one's own heart if one can be honest 
with one's self. How do your moods come 
and go? How does anger or joy or eager- 
ness affect you? If you look carefully 
you will find yourself doing a thousand 
little things you were never before con- 
scious of, and it is these little un- 
conscious things which indicate the 
inward condition. To say that your 
heroine was proud and defiant is not half 
so effective as saying she tossed her 
head and stanped her foot and her eyes 
flashed defiant fire. A gesture, a 
glance, anything however small which on© 
does unconsciously under stress is sig- 
nificant and telling. 

What people tell you about themselves 
is seldom to be taken seriously. No doubt 
they try to be honest, and no doubt they 
think they understand themselves? but 
the opinion of a man about one he has 
just met is infinitely more likely to be 
true than anything he may say about 
himself. 

This suggests another point: it is 
difficult to analyze the character of 
an intimate friend. kook for real infor~ 
mat ion as to human character in the 
first vivid impressions you receive from 
one you have never met before. Th* 



144 

salient characteristics standout then: 
those of your friend have been blunted 
in /our mind by association and involved 
in a great confusion and compl ication, 
while in the case of a stranger you do 
not know too much to understand clearly. 
In writing it is seldom safe to write 
about things you know very well, because 
your store of information is so great it 
is difficult to choose. If you have a 
few vivid impressions they are more easi- 
ly end satisfactoriallv handled in a 
story. 

It is a trick of observers of life to 
see in others their own peculiar defects. 
This does not come from vanity, but is 
a sort of curious optical delusion or 
illusion, and we mention it here simply 
to impress the young student with the 
fact that every observation to be valua- 
ble has to be corrected, so to speak; it 
must be examined to find out how much of 
the original impression was personal to 
the observer a&d how much really was true. 
There is always a small amount of what 
may be called prejudice in every impres- 
sion, however clears minded and fair one 
may be, and when one comes to write, this 
personal element shows itself disastrous- 
ly unless one is very much oti his guard* 

Every writer ought to formulate for 
himself more or less completely a phil- 
osophy of life. He should arrange his 
thought about the universe into a system, 
so that he will feel clear as to what 



145 
God is, what love is, what the meaning of 
life is, what is to be looked into and 
krown and what is to be left untouched 
by the human mind. This systematizing of 
all life may be very incomplete and im- 
practical for any one but the particular 
owner of it; yet every writer ought to 
have a clear notion of just what he 
thinks about these things, in order to 
be perfectly steady in his delineation 
of motive. This philosophy of life will 
not be found in books or anywhere else 
outside of one's own mind. Each man must 
study it out for himself, but until he 
has conn to some conclusion he is likely 
to have difficulty whenever he finds his 
characters in certain situations he has 
not fully considered. Just what the 
Philosophy is matters much less than 
that one should have a very definite no- 
tion of what it is in his particular case. 
The most important point about success- 
ful character study, however, is patience. 
It cannot be forced, and it frequently 
works itself out in the mind unconscious- 
ly. Certain impressions will lodge in 
/our mind when you have seen some person, 
and not until weeks afterward will their 
presence be discovered. One cannot make 
a business of searching out these 
hidden things, for a search seldom 
reveals anything; but the natural pro- 
cesses of the desirous mind rarely le^y*? 
anything hidden forever. This is tY\$ 
reason why no man ought to make the |rrit- 



146 
ing of K***9te*« fiction his sole business, 
at least until he is well advanced in 
the art. One gets observations in the 
ordinary course of everyday life, and 
the rr*>re unconscious one is the more 
likely is he to get valuable impressions. 
A story grows in one's mind, too, far 
better when one's bands are engaged or 
one's mind is occupied in other directions. 
During the intervals of rest from busi- 
ness the mind takes up the realization 
of the character with freshness and 
eagerness,. If the mind works on charac- 
ter study more than a very short time, 
it grows weary and nothing valuable can 
be accompli 3hed. 

One always gets the best opportunities 
for studying character in the ordinary 
routine of some steady employment , whether 
it be that of a clerk in his office or a 
woman in her social obligations. It is 
best to choose a business, of course, in 
which one comes in contact with as many 
different people as possible, and it is 
also necessary to cultivate habits of 
sociability and sympathy with those 
about you if you are to draw out their 
real characters. Sympathy, sincerity, and 
honest eagerness are the very best tools 
one can have to open the treasure chests 
which contain the secrets of human life. 



14? 
X, 

The Teat o£ Ability . 

Two elements are needed for success in 
authorship; the chief is a thorough 
knowledge of the art of expression; the 
second, only less important, is an orig- 
inal talent, or sufficient personal qual- 
ifications. Many people will wonder why 
talent is put second and not first, for 
there is a popular impression that talent 
is pretty nearly everything* An old pro- 
fessor who was very wise and indeed very 
well known the world over, used to say 
to his class that each one had mental 
power enough to create a revolution, 
though he were the dullest man of them 
all; and he would illustrate his prop- 
osition by saying that any man could 
learn by constant daily practice during 
a sufficient period to hold his body 
straight out at arm's length at right 
anples with a ladder as he grasped one 
of the rungs. Likewise, there are very 
few indeed who do not have some ideas 
worth expression, if by sufficient study 
of the art they have learned to do it 
with force and effect. 

It is always a question, however, how 
much work will be needed to accomplish 
the desired result, and the length of 
time that is needed, as well as the 
amount of effort, depends directly on 
one's natural ability. It becomes a very 
important problem to test one's ability, 
to know Just what it is, and whether it 



148 

is worth developing in conparison with 
certain other talents. One should not 
waste time in learning to write if he 
can learn how to be a merchant more 
easily ani surely* It is the purpose of 
this chapter to offer a few suggestions 
of a purely practical kind looking in 
this direct ion. 

First , let us say that no one, whatever 
his talent, should think of making his 
living by writing pure literature, that i s 
by fiction t poetry, or essays. Most have 
not the talent to succeed to the extent 
that this requires, and those who have 
the talent are very likely to spoil it by 
putting such an enormous burden on their 
shoulders. Whatever may be said to the 
contrary, those who seek a literary life, 
even of the hi^iest kind, will find it 
decidedly to their advantage to enter 
journalism, or take up some editorial 
work, or otherwise undertake the business 
side of literature before trying to 
enter the ideal side. Many will find 
that literature is best pursued as a 
side issue with some other business* 
There is no reason in the world why jour- 
nalism or editorial work or law sho^Hi 
should seriously interfere with success 
in writing artistic fiction; on the 
contrary there is every reason in the 
world wty in the end some such outside 
pursuit should aid very substantially 
one's success in pure literature, because 
such occupations open up the avenues by 



149 

which we come to understand human nature, 
to realize life truly, or in other words, 
these other pursuits enable us to accum- 
ulate in the best possible way the 
material we must use in making literature. 
The man or woman who devotes himself ex- 
clusively to literature is almost sure to 
become more or less morbid, and we ven- 
ture to assert that the successful 
novelist of today who lives by his pen 
(though he may tell you quite the con- 
trary himself) has a constant fight 
against morbidity, and one in which he 
is not always successful. 

But having decided to devote a certain 
amount of one's time to writing of somp 
sort, in most cases fiction, the young 
writer wishes to test his ability in somp 
way. The simplest method is to go with 
one's work to a wise and sympathetic 
advisor, if you can find such a one, and 
let him tell you just what your strong 
points are and just what your weak ones. 
With this knowledge you can easily make 
up your mind as to the amount of time 
necessary to cure your defects, and 
whether your gifts warrant the effort. 

But a wise and sympathetic advisor is 
the rarest thing in the world to find. 
There are plenty of advisors, but most 
of them know still less about you than 
you know about yourself, and in addition 
they for one reason or another will not 
or cannot tell you what they know. A» a 



150 

matter of fact you must be your own ad- 
visor. 

In order to tost one's self one must be 
honest, and what is more, sincerity is 
the first great qualification for the 
writing of really valuable fiction. The 
public loves sincerity, and for the sake 
of sincerity will forgive almost any 
art 1st ic defect. 

Sincerity means truth of heart, both 
in reality and in portrayal, and good 
fiction is that which represents the heatt 
truly. 

The first great gift which the young 
author should covet is, then, sincerity, 
and for two reasons* first, it is one 
great talent (yes, a real talent, perhaps 
a genius L » second, it is an absolute 
requisite to testing one's abilities. 

Many will doubtless pass over this 
hastily, but the truth still remains that 
it is the first and chief qualification 
for success in the writing of fiction, 
am few are they who possess it in any 
marked degree. 

The second qualification, the qualifi- 
cation which the man or woman who really 
sets out honestly to examine himself will 
look for, is the ability to follow a trafci 
of thought without outside aids. Many 
people can talk well, even brilliantly, 
but when alone they will not be able to 
think continuously or effectively. Some 
people would call this power imagination, 



101 

but the ability to think in images is not 
necessarily requisite to writing success- 
fully. The writer who would succeed must 
have the habit of thinfcing, however, 
and people who do not like to meditate, 
whether in a dreamy and far away fashion, 
or in a purely practical and business 
fashion, will not be likely to write with 
any considerable power. Letter-writing 
as a gift usually goes with the ability 
to think, but sometimes those who do not 
like to write letters have a literary 
abil it y. 

The third requisite for becoming a 
successful writer is the gift of language. 
We have mentioned this last of all because 
it i s really the least important, strange 
as this may seem. Language can bo ac- 
quired, but sincerity and meditativeness 
are very difficult of acquisition. Wo 
know a young man who until he was twenty 
appeared to lack the gi f t of language al- 
most entirely, and thought this a fatal 
impediment, to his becoming a successful 
writer. He set himself to acquire what 
command of words he could, however, and 
in the end became eminently proficient. 
Of course some people gain a command of 
language much mo re easily than others, 
but all must learn, and the brightest and 
dullest alike have the task of acouisi- 
t ion to be acconplished before they can 
be proficient writers. 

To test one's command of language, how- 



ever, One may first inquire whether he is 
a ready letter*. writer or not. This is a 
vague test, for some people write vol- 
uminous letters who have not larpe com- 
mand of language, and some people who 
have a command of language never write 
long letters. Yet these are exceptions 
to tte rtae that if one is a ready letter- 
writer one has a {pod command of language, 
and if one is not, that command is prob- 
ably lacking as a natural gift. Letter* 
writing, however, does not indicate in 
any way one's acquired proficiency in 
the use of language, vfaich comes only 
from long an i thoughtful reading. 
If one has not done a very 1 sr pe anpunt 
of careful, thoughtful reading of the best 
literature he is not likely to have a 
trained style, however voluminously he 
may have written. 

Verse-making is an admirable way of 
cultivating one's use of words, for it 
necessitates a great variety of expressive 
phrased as well as individual words for 
rhyming, and so forth, and is strongly 
recommended for practice and as a test. 

Another good test of one's command of 
language^and also a good exercisers to 
sit down quietly and alone after some 
interesting experience or observation 
and write out a description of it. If 
one is really interested in the subject 
the writing shaul d be easy and expressive. 
Never try to write a description of 



153 

anything which does not really interest 
you, ho waver, for unless you have a 
genuine interest there will be no test. 
A description of a conversation is a good 
test of one's power to write dialogue. 

Having sincerity, the meditat ive habit, 
and a good command of language, one 
ought to be able to write in some way 
or other with real success. It is still 
an op en que st ion , ho wever , what styl e 
of writing one should choose. 

The simplest form of composition is 
essay*writ ing, and it is a fact that 
nearly all great novelists and indeed 
writers of all kinds, have begun with 
essay^wr it ing, for instance writing book 
reviews for a local newspaper, or short 
articles describing some curious or in- 
teresting event, or little studies of 
interesting personalities. This is not 
essay^writ ing in the technical sense of 
the word, it is perhaps more accurately 
termed sketching in words. The artist 
begins to make outlines first, then draws 
careful pictures in black and white, and 
finally paints an elaborate picture in 
colors. A short story (that is, a thor- 
oughly artistic short story) is a paint- 
ing in color of a single figure. A novel 
is a painting of a group. 

When one has mastered sket ch~wr it ing 
(and no young author should think for a 
moment of leaping at once into the fin- 
ished work, though alrrpst all do just 
this), he will wish to find out whett^r 
he has the ability to write an artiflltft 



f*. 



154 

story. To ascertain this, let him ask* 
first, whether he understands the meaning 
of human motive, for fiction is a study 
of motive. If he has a deep and decided 
interest in human motive he may probably 
becQne a writer of short stories, or 
artistic fiction of some kind. Stories 
may be written in an essay style or the 
conversational style, and one should de- 
termine one * s powers in t hi s particular 
next. People with vivid imaginations 
will write character studies well, those 
with a philosophic turn of mind will 
write stories in the narrative, descrip- 
tive, essay style, but in any case a story 
ought to be a study of nptive. 

The style that one can write most easi- 
ly is the best style to cultivate. Many 
people think that fefe$£x4«xtt*l& what they 
do well and naturally and easily is a 
fault rather than otnerwise. This is 
not the case, however, anl if one has a 
particular facility for conversation, or 
character study, or philosophic writing 
he shoul i cultivate it, restraining it 
when it becomes excessive and burdensome 
to be sure, but never giving it up as 
altogether bad. It i s much better to 
learn to curb one's natural tendencies 
than create new abilities. 

The secret of arriving at a satisfac- 
tory knowledge of one's abilities is to 
begin at a definite point an1 proceed 
from point to point. Ask first if you 



155 

are quite honest with yourself; then 
follow in order with the other questions 
we have proposed, making tests of various 
kinds until you are satisfied in your 
own mind. Study each point thoroughly, 
in order to find out whether you surely 
lack or surely possess a girt, and then 
consider whether you can by study and 
effort develop the lacking quality, or 
had best pursue some line in which it is 
not required. This habit of self-exam- 
ination will not only give you reliable 
and necessary information about yourself, 
but it will develop that habit of mental 
investigation which is at the foundation 
of all valuable character study. 



156 

Conclusion . 

Put art must be forgotten before it 
can be useful. There are two perfect 
artists, the innocent an d unconscious 
child (who is but the hand of divine 
intelligence), and the trained man of 
letters to whom art has become a second 
nature. Art is after all but a means. 
It should be the fluid medium through 
which heart speaks to heart. Literature 
is for the heart to live by r — if you would 
know its end and mission. If you would 
make others live, you must live yourself, 
yes, am die. You must coin your heart's 
blood into the universal coin of the 
realm of heart, so transmuting your pain 
into life for others. If you do that, 
art be cores but a paltry thing in com- 
parison, — indeed it is only the way in 
which you perform your alchemy. Art is 
a mea ns , never an d end , and "Art for 
art's sake", or n L* Art pour l' art " as 
they call it more appropriately, is dille- 
tantism pure and simple. Dilletantism 
may be a very good thing on occasion, but 
it is not for the dilletante that the 
practical instructions of this little 
book have been intended. 

Hules may be applied to a subject 
before it is understood or mastered in 
order to get at the heart of the matter; 
and they may be applied to a work of art 
after it is finished in order to test it 
and show how to correct it. But while 



157 

one is constructing, while one is actual- 
ly writing a story, rules are the mo st 
fatal thing to have in mind* This fact 
has no doubt been the great barrier to 
the existence of any formulation of the 
principles of literary art. But though 
the athlete must not think of dumb-bells 
and horizontal bars and his trainer when 
he is performing feats of dexterity on 
the trapeze a hundred feet above the 
ground, it would be utterly fatal for him 
to atterrpt anything dangerous or diffi- 
cult without having first gone through 
all this conscious, painful training. 
Likewise with the literary artist: self- 
consciousness during the actual perfor- 
mance of the feat of writing a story is 
the most dangerous thing in the world; 
but there is no surer way of escaping it 
than by submitting first to a rigorous 
course of self-conscious preparation. 
Self-consc iousne ss is sure to come 
sooner or later, and it must be met and 
overcome if failure is not to be deliberate- 
ly invited. What safer plan is there than 
to meet it at once and systematically, 
and fortify one*s4Hfer art so thoroughly 
that there can t>e no surprises or unlook- 
ed for difficulties* 

Hut as we said in the beginning, Art 
must be forgotten before it can be useful. 
•A little, knowledge is a dangerous thing," 
The writer of fiction should master his 
art or abandon it. 



